On the 11th Hour, of the 11th Day, of the 11th Month. The guns in France fell silent.
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.
Read more about it:
Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour: Armistice Day 1918, World War I and its Violent Climax. D523 P44 2004
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