⁠⁠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 those who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
⁠⁠In Flanders fields.

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
⁠The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
⁠That brave and fallen crew.
On fame's eternal camping ground
⁠Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
⁠The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
⁠Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
⁠Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
⁠The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
⁠At dawn shall call to arms.