Dedicated to John McCrea and all who lie In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark your dead; and in the sky
We Germans, dominant, still fly
Our guns are still well heard below.
You are the Dead; long days ago
You lived, felt hunger, cold and snow
We hated you and now you lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up your quarrel with us, foe
For from your failing hands we throw
The torch; `twas yours to hold it high
And yet we break your faith, you die
And shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields poppies blow
While we look on, we cannot know
Why it is thus; why to the world
From failing hands a torch is hurled
And lifted high: Are we to go
And die; in Flanders fields?
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