Tread lightly, 'tis a soldiers grave,
A lonely, mossy mound;
And yet to hearts like mine and thine
It should be holy ground.
Speak softly, let no careless laugh,
No idle, thoughtless jest,
Escape your lips where sweetly sleeps
The hero in his rest.
For him no reveille will beat
When morning beams shall come;
For him, at night, no tattoo rolls
Its thunders from the drum.
Tread lightly! for a man bequeathed,
Ere laid beneath this sod,
His ashes to his native land,
His gallant soul to God.

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.