In Flanders Fields  by John McCrae, May 1915
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.