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.
John McCrae
How I hope that, beautiful as the poem is, the dead do sleep easily and have put the old emnities aside...
ReplyDeleteHi Elephant's Child, thanks, yes hopefully they have a peaceful slumber and all ill will drifts away.
DeleteLovely! Hope you had a good day.
ReplyDeleteHi Suzi, thanks, yes a relaxing day it being rather warm all of a sudden here.
DeleteSuch a beautiful, poignant poem. I love reading it.
ReplyDeleteHi Barbara, thanks, I can just imagine poppies blowing in the wind of a field.
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