In Flanders Fields, and Other Poems

John McCrae, physician, soldier, and poet, died in France a Lieutenant-Colonel with the Canadian forces. The poem which gives this collection of his lovely verse its name has been extensively reprinted, and received with unusual enthusiasm. The volume contains, as well, a striking essay in character by his friend, Sir Andrew Macphail.
{Although the poem itself is included shortly, this next section is included for completeness, and to show John McCrae's punctuation — also to show that I'm not the only one who forgets lines. — A. L.}
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies grow 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
{From a} Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem In Flanders Fields
This was probably written from memory as grow is used in place of blow in the first line.
In Flanders Fields 1915 The Anxious Dead 1917 The Warrior 1907 Isandlwana 1910 The Unconquered Dead 1906 The Captain 1913 The Song of the Derelict 1898 Quebec 1908 Then and Now 1896 Unsolved 1895 The Hope of My Heart 1894 Penance 1896 Slumber Songs 1897 The Oldest Drama 1907 Recompense 1896 Mine Host 1897 Equality 1898 Anarchy 1897 Disarmament 1899 The Dead Master 1913 The Harvest of the Sea 1898 The Dying of Pere Pierre 1904 Eventide 1895 Upon Watts' Picture Sic Transit 1904 A Song of Comfort 1894 The Pilgrims 1905 The Shadow of the Cross 1894 The Night Cometh 1913 In Due Season 1897 John McCrae An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail
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.