In Kandahar fields the poppies grow Between the crosses, row on row,    That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly    Scarce

In Kandahar fields the poppies grow 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 Kandahar 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 Kandahar fields.