Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh Against the joys that throng thy coming day. - John McCrae

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.

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

"Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?"