Eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month… the day that the guns fell quiet across Flanders’ Fields and others, all along the Western Front. A war that is nearly forgotten, although it’s stigmata fell across most of this last century, in one guise or cause or the other.
(American War Cemetary, Chateau Thierry, 1985)
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.