“Take up our 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, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.” — 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
