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“To You from Failing Hands We Throw…”
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.
— Lt. Col. John McCrae, 1915
Published in Military
Thank you.
A very excellent poem that I always teach to my 4th graders. Thanks for posting it.
Amen.
At the Memorial Day remembrance I attended today there was a reading of In Flanders Fields. Many people (me included) were wearing a poppies. After the reading, the flag was retired and presented to a veteran of the Vietnam war. Very moving.
“If you could see at every jolt the breath
Come gargling forth from froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory
That old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.”
— Brooke (I think. It might be Owen. From memory.)
Totally appropriate, but truly sad that so much has been lost to current generations who neither know nor care about the sacrifices made by our fighting men, young men who never had a future but who insured that each of us would. God Rest their Souls.
Wilfred Owen. Killed in action in November 1918 age 25, a few days before the Armistice.
And this one, also very simple and poignant:
My mother’s father was an artillery corporal in WWI, in a unit that was almost entirely wiped out by mustard gas in the Argonne.
My favorite military poem. And my favorite response to it is R.W. Lillard’s “America’s Answer”:
Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead
The fight that you so bravely led
We’ve taken up. And we will keep
True faith with you who lie asleep,
With each a cross to mark his bed,
And poppies blowing overhed,
When once his own life-blood ran red
So let your rest be sweet and deep
In Flanders Fields.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
The torch ye threw to us we caught,
Ten million hands will hold it high,
And freedom’s light shall never die!
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
I saw a World War I documentary not long ago that concluded with the poem in the original post.
Or rather most of it. They omitted the last stanza, and in so doing did precisely what the poem asked them not to do.
Yes, thanks. The last word of the first line should be blood, (not breath). Rhymes with cud.
Did anybody else read Vera Brittain’s “Testament of Youth”? And Paul Fussel’s “The Great War and Modern Memory”?
“Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.”
— Mary Elizabeth Frye
John McCrae was more than a poet, he was a surgeon, and a proud son of Canada. He wrote In Flanders Field after losing a good friend and former student in the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915.
Lt. Col. McCrae lies in the sandy soil of Wimereux, France, a victim of pneumonia in January of 1918.
As we remember our own this Memorial Day, let us also drink a toast to our brothers in arms, particularly those of the Anglosphere (British, Canadian, Australian and New Zealanders) who serve beside our boys today as they have so many times in the past.
I’m sorry, but I so dislike this one. It makes me want to scream, “Yes you DID die, damn you! And I will never forgive you!”
I’m sorry for your loss. This poem makes my losses more bearable. I hope you can understand that.
This poem makes me forget the festering political rage for a day and remember what matters, just for today.
It was rash and insensitive of me to post that comment. Please forgive me.
Actually he died one week exactly from Armistice. I just posted on an Owen poem on my personal blog yesterday, “Anthem for Doom Youth.” Here’s the poem:
If your intersted in reading an analysis of the poem, you can go to my blog.
I read your blog–thanks for bringing it to our attention!
“Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds”: here’s what it means to me: funereal flowers are kind of a useless gesture,. They are themselves ephemeral, already dead after being cut. They are a futile attempt to cover a death with the false appearance of vivid life, to cover the foulness of decay with the perfume of life. They are “tender”,fragile, as the emotion toward the dead is helpless tenderness. At a funeral or on a grave, flowers evidence the kind of “patience” expressed by the Psalmist: though He slay me, yet will I cling to Him. Mortals must be “patient”, and not importunately demand an explanation as to why such terrible things, so agonizing to His creatures, are ordained by God. To tell ourselves that in the sweet by and by all will be made clear is the mental equivalent of laying upon a coffin those dead yet still bright and fragrant blooms.
It clearly isn’t useless to some; beautiful flowers bring comfort and beauty to a time and place that seems sad and desolate. Personally I prefer to make a donation to an organization that was meaningful to the person who died or important to the family; that feels like a gesture of respect and honors life.
Thank you Hypatia. I’ll have to think about that.
A fascinating post and a veritable treasure of poetic responses, for which I thank one and all. Would that all our fellow citizens display such heartfelt caring and compassion for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice so that we could remain free. Thank you again and God Bless America!
I stepped in it again. Useless wasn’t the right word.