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 among the guns below. — John McCrae Copy Share Image
“Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep, Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" How should they know the vigils… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
“That day of battle in the dusty heat We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, And… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
In Flanders fields the poppies blow, Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky, The larks, still bravely… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
“Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. — John McCrae Copy Share Image
“Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye… — John McCrae Copy Share Image
The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below — John McCrae Copy Share Image
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street — John McCrae Copy Share Image
