In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce 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.
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Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's read more
Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away.
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truthAll death will he annul, all tears assuage?Or fill these void veins full read more
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truthAll death will he annul, all tears assuage?Or fill these void veins full again with youthAnd wash with an immortal water age?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Behold,A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would read more
Behold,A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would not so, but slew his son...
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.
My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned read more
My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.
Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even read more
Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.
