In Flanders Field by John McCrae

In Flanders field the poppy’s blow 
between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place: and in the sky
The lark still bravely singing flies,
scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead: short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow
loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders field.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
the torch: be it yours to hold it high, if ye break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
in Flanders field

Lest we Forget.