In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce 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 throwThe 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
¶ 8:45 AM
Thank you. It was one of the first poems I memorized in grammar school, and today it was a source of fertile meditation, thanks to your recalling it for me.