Eleventh Hour Of The Eleven Day Of The Eleventh Month.

The Day Canada Became A Nation

This poem is not an anti-war poem.

This is a poem to the living, telling us to take up the fight and win it, or else the forfeit the sacrifices that others have made for us (emphasis mine).

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.

 

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