In Flanders' Fields

 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 you break faith with us who die,
 We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
 In Flanders' fields.

A portion of the poem is printed on new Canadian $10 notes.

External Link

• the e-text of John McCrae's In Flanders Fields And Other Poems (http://www.abacci.com/books/book.asp?bookID=977)