In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days agoWe 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
