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.
By John McCrae
The years at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven,
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven-
All's right with the world.
by Robert Browning
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith"A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!"