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
Quebec
-1908 Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, “The spoils unto the conquerors belong. Who winneth me must win me by the sword.” Grown old,
Slumber Songs
I Sleep, little eyes That brim with childish tears amid thy play, Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh Against the joys that throng thy coming day. Sleep, little heart! There is no
The Harvest Of The Sea
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves Her web of silence o’er the thankful song Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves. The wave tops
The Pilgrims
An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers, Where every beam that broke the leaden sky Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours; Some clustered graves where half our memories lie; And one grim
The Night Cometh
Cometh the night. The wind falls low, The trees swing slowly to and fro: Around the church the headstones grey Cluster, like children strayed away But found again, and folded so. No chiding look
Upon Watts' Picture Sic Transit
“What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.” But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, The waving of the banners, and the rattle of
Anarchy
I saw a city filled with lust and shame, Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came One who spoke boldly for the cause
The Dead Master
Amid earth’s vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime: To-day around him surges from the silences of Time A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad, Fit song for heroes gathered
The Oldest Drama
“It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to
The Warrior
He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, But with the night his little lamp-lit room Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the
The Song Of The Derelict
Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes (I scorn your beguiling, O sea!) Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes. (A treacherous lover, the sea!) Once I saw
Eventide
The day is past and the toilers cease; The land grows dim ‘mid the shadows grey, And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace At the close of day. Each weary toiler, with