In Flanders Fields
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.
By Lt-Col. John McCrae, Canadian Expeditionary Force, WW1.
I was introduced to the poetry of Wilfred Owen, perhaps the best known of the Great War's poets - by an English teacher who was one of those exceptional presenters of his subject who manage to - without apparent effort - immediately command the respect of even unruly classes of youngsters.
He was James McKay, of Dunfermline High School. I didn't become a convert to poetry generally, but to that of only a few writers. I regret in these latter years of my life that I haven't read more of it, but the seeds Mr McKay sowed all those decades past haven't expired just yet. It was under his guidance that I learned to love this mongrel language of ours, and to cherish its marvels and its wonderful effectiveness in the conveyance of the smallest nuance of inference.
In Flanders Fields
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.
By Lt-Col. John McCrae, Canadian Expeditionary Force, WW1.
I was introduced to the poetry of Wilfred Owen, perhaps the best known of the Great War's poets - by an English teacher who was one of those exceptional presenters of his subject who manage to - without apparent effort - immediately command the respect of even unruly classes of youngsters.
He was James McKay, of Dunfermline High School. I didn't become a convert to poetry generally, but to that of only a few writers. I regret in these latter years of my life that I haven't read more of it, but the seeds Mr McKay sowed all those decades past haven't expired just yet. It was under his guidance that I learned to love this mongrel language of ours, and to cherish its marvels and its wonderful effectiveness in the conveyance of the smallest nuance of inference.