In Flanders fields the poppies blow
	Between the crosses, row on row,
	That mark our place; and in the sky
	The larks, still bravely singing, fly
	Scarce heard amid the guns below.
	We are the Dead. Short days ago
	We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
	Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
	In Flanders Fields.
	Take up our quarrel with the foe:
	To you from failing hands we throw
	The torch; be yours to hold it high.
	If ye break faith with us who die
	We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
	In Flanders Fields.
	- John McCrae