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 the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
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.
The poem “Flanders Fields” was written in 1915 by John McCrae, a Canadian doctor, a the day after the funeral of a friend and former student. He fought on the Western Front in 1914, but was reassigned to a French hospital. His asthma exacerbated by poison gas exposure, he died of pneumonia and meningitis while on active duty in 1918.