A surgeon and military officer serving for Canada was so moved and haunted by his experience that he handwrote this poem on a simple notepad during a period when he was expected “to rest”. He endured and his team accomplished more than thought humanly possible. It was through his anguish of losing a friend who was also a former student and by needs presiding over the makeshift funeral/burial that these memorable words fell from his heart, through his fingers to a piece of paper that we have this poem that has been learned/memorized by students and citizens alike.
To think that the view of poppies growing in ditches of Europe that had experienced so much bloodshed pricked his heart is such a way.
To think that he was so affected by 17 days of service that a poem was handwritten, disregarded and discarded, collected by someone equally touched as well as persistent enough to garner an approval for publication even after being rejected by a newspaper before finally being presented to publishing media that “did have the intelligence” to recognize the significance of these written words.
How appropriate today that my special Canadian friend Dolores Morse posted this for all to enjoy which gives me the opportunity to share “the rest of the story” with each of you. Here is that much loved poem.
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.