12 Quotes by John McCrae

Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from falling hands we throw.

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 among the guns below.