In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
*originally published in Punch Magazine
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween 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 agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn 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 dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.