In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
That 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!