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.
If of thy mortal goods thoU art bereft, And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky the night, I mourn'd - and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.