In Flanders Fields

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.

John McCrae (1872 - 1918) 

They shall grow not old,
As we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn,
At the going down of the sun              
And in the morning
We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

Have you news of my boy Jack?
Not this tide.
When d'you think that he'll come back?
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?
None this tide
Nor any tide
Except he did not shame his kind
Not even with that wind blowing and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more
This tide
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.

(Rudyard Kipling - after learning of his son's death)