In Flanders Fields
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
The above poem was written by a John McCrea, a Canadian military doctor.
It is believed that he stood in to conduct the burial service of a fallen friend at Ypres in 1915 and later that evening penned this poem.
This is from where the tradition of wearing the poppy in remembrance comes.
I was at the local service yesterday, those two minutes fill you with an increasing sadness but also overcome you with a sense of pride.
Lest We Forget, the brave and fallen.
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
The above poem was written by a John McCrea, a Canadian military doctor.
It is believed that he stood in to conduct the burial service of a fallen friend at Ypres in 1915 and later that evening penned this poem.
This is from where the tradition of wearing the poppy in remembrance comes.
I was at the local service yesterday, those two minutes fill you with an increasing sadness but also overcome you with a sense of pride.
Lest We Forget, the brave and fallen.