[ Waiting until after midnight here to send this on the 90th
anniversary of the Armistice ]
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
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.
(the first line is usually 'poppies blow' but 'grow' is a valid
variant, and I think the better)
--
Man is born free, but is everywhere in chains.
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