John Mccrae
In Flanders Field
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 Dying Of Pere Pierre
“. . . with two other priests; the same night he died, And was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name.” Chronicle. “Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil, When all Life’s day I had, tho’ faintly, wrought, And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil Were all my labour: Shall I count it
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on: (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear, And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
The Captain
Here all the day she swings from tide to tide, Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain, A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride, Yet unashamed: her memories remain. It
Then And Now
Beneath her window in the fragrant night I half forget how truant years have flown Since I looked up to see her chamber-light, Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown Upon the casement; but
Mine Host
There stands a hostel by a travelled way; Life is the road and Death the worthy host; Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, “How have ye fared?” They answer him, the
Equality
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave Into a nation all his great heart thought, Unsatisfied until he should achieve The grand ideal that his manhood sought; Yet as he saw
The Hope Of My Heart
“Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, Domine.” I left, to earth, a little maiden fair, With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light; I prayed that God might have her
The Unconquered Dead
“. . . defeated, with great loss.” Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame Of them that flee, of them that basely yield; Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame Of
Recompense
I saw two sowers in Life’s field at morn, To whom came one in angel guise and said, “Is it for labour that a man is born? Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and
Isandlwana
Scarlet coats, and crash o’ the band, The grey of a pauper’s gown, A soldier’s grave in Zululand, And a woman in Brecon Town. My little lad for a soldier boy, (Mothers o’ Brecon
Unsolved
Amid my books I lived the hurrying years, Disdaining kinship with my fellow man; Alike to me were human smiles and tears, I cared not whither Earth’s great life-stream ran, Till as I knelt
Penance
My lover died a century ago, Her dear heart stricken by my sland’rous breath, Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know The peace of death. Men pass my grave, and say, “‘Twere well
Disarmament
One spake amid the nations, “Let us cease From darkening with strife the fair World’s light, We who are great in war be great in peace. No longer let us plead the cause by