a poem i heard
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 dead, short days ago
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
loved and were loved, and now we die
in flanders field
take up the quarrel with the foe,
to you from failing hands we throw
the torch be yours to hold it high
if ye break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep tho poppies grow
in flanders fields.
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