in afghan fields, the poppies blow
beneath the mountains, row on row
that mark our peace; and in the skies
the army, bravely singing, flies
scarce heard amid their 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 afghan 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 afghan fields