In Flanders Field

 

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.

Random poems:

Fred’s Thoughtful Head

There once lived a man named Fred

Who had a very big head

He never thought he could die

Until he got hit in the eye

Now he knew there’d be a day he’d be dead.

 

The Poem Dad

This is a poem about Dad

In this poem he got really mad

Dad went away

In that poem, on that day

But then again, you can never make Dad at all mad.