In Flanders Fields

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John McCrae, 1872 – 1918

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.

Author: rharrisonauthor

International man of mystery. Well not really, although I can mangle several languages and even read the occasional hieroglyphic. A computer scientist, an author and one of the very few people who has both an NIH grant and a book contract. A rising author of sweet romantic historical fiction. A booktrope author.

1 thought on “In Flanders Fields”

  1. This poem has always had very personal meaning to me. My father was born in December 1914 in a village near Paschendale Ridge in Belgium, and the family were war refugees. This poem was written by a man looking out on a Belgian poppy field toward where my grandparents lived after a battle that might’ve been the one that drove the family out of their home. In short, the poem speaks to my famiiy’s history.

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