“On the Flanders front in the early Spring of 1915, when the war had settled down to trench fighting, two of the most noticeable features of the field were, first, the luxuriant growth of red poppies appearing among the graves of the fallen soldiers, and second, that only one species of bird--the larks--remained on the field during the fighting. As soon as the cannonading ceased, they would rise in the air, singing.” 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. Rupert Brooke, a brilliant, impassioned young Englishman, was one of the first to take arms when Great Britain went to war. He died in the Dardanelles expedition, April 23, 1915. A few days before, he had sent from the Ægean Sea to the English-speaking peoples the poem by which he is best known: THE SOLDIER[2] If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed, A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Lieutenant Brooke was a rare poet, having a serene faith, a knowledge of life as continuous. His bent of thought, the manner of his feeling, shine most clearly in this sonnet: NOT WITH VAIN TEARS Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty highroads of the aimless dead, Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run Down some close-covered byway of the air, Some low, sweet alley between wind and wind, Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find Some whispering, ghost-forgotten nook, and there Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.