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.
This poem was written in 1915 by Captain John McCrae, utterly disillusioned by the ravaging war all around him. He was dissatisfied with the poem and threw it away. A friend, picked it up, sent in to London, the Spectator refused to publish a poem that didn't glorify war, Punch published it instead. McCrae didn't see the end of the war, whilst serving in the field hospital, he caught pneumonia, contracted meningitis and died in 1918.
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.
This poem was written in 1915 by Captain John McCrae, utterly disillusioned by the ravaging war all around him. He was dissatisfied with the poem and threw it away. A friend, picked it up, sent in to London, the Spectator refused to publish a poem that didn't glorify war, Punch published it instead. McCrae didn't see the end of the war, whilst serving in the field hospital, he caught pneumonia, contracted meningitis and died in 1918.
