In Flanders Fields and Other Poems

John McCrae, physician, soldier, and poet, died in France a Lieutenant-Colonel with the Canadian forces.

The poem which gives this collection of his lovely verse its name has been extensively reprinted, and received with unusual enthusiasm.

The volume contains, as well, a striking essay in character by his friend, Sir Andrew Macphail.

{Although the poem itself is included shortly, this next section is included for completeness, and to show John McCrae's punctuation — also to show that I'm not the only one who forgets lines. — A. L.}

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

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.

John McCrae

{From a} Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "In Flanders Fields"

This was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow" in the first line.