This poem describes the poppies growing in Flanders Fields where soldiers fell in World War I. It depicts the dead soldiers lying in their graves marked with crosses in rows, and tells those still living to continue fighting for those who died and to honor their memory and sacrifice by keeping faith with them. The dead soldiers say they may be gone but will not truly rest or be forgotten as long as poppies continue to grow in Flanders Fields as a memorial where they fell.
This poem describes the poppies growing in Flanders Fields where soldiers fell in World War I. It depicts the dead soldiers lying in their graves marked with crosses in rows, and tells those still living to continue fighting for those who died and to honor their memory and sacrifice by keeping faith with them. The dead soldiers say they may be gone but will not truly rest or be forgotten as long as poppies continue to grow in Flanders Fields as a memorial where they fell.
This poem describes the poppies growing in Flanders Fields where soldiers fell in World War I. It depicts the dead soldiers lying in their graves marked with crosses in rows, and tells those still living to continue fighting for those who died and to honor their memory and sacrifice by keeping faith with them. The dead soldiers say they may be gone but will not truly rest or be forgotten as long as poppies continue to grow in Flanders Fields as a memorial where they fell.
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, in Flanders Fields! And now we lie in Flanders fields.
Take up your quarrel with the foe: To you from
failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it hight. If ye break faith with us who die. We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, in Flanders fiends, in Flanders fields. WE sjal not sleep, though poppies grow, In Flanders Fields, In Flanders Fields.
Ulysses BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and slee