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 among 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 our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw,
The torch be yours to hold up high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.