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.

James Heron

In Flanders Fields the poppies bloom,
Where standing crosses mark your tomb,
Where larks are gaily singing still,
But now we hear their skyward trill,
For all the guns have ceased to boom.

The crosses tells us you are dead,
But flaming poppies tell instead,
That you are living now anew,
In hearts who caught the torch you threw
From Flanders Field

Though you are sleeping "over There,"
We know that you are living here,
We loved you then, we love you still,
So long as poppies bloom, we will;
So long as larks sing in the air
In Flanders Field.

R. W. Lillard