John McCrae

Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae (30 November 1872 – 28 January 1918) was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during World War I. He is famous for writing the war memorial poem "In Flanders Fields". McCrae died of pneumonia near the end of the war. His famous poem is a threnody, a genre of lament.

Quotes

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
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.

In Flanders Fields and Other Poems (1919)

New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons
  • That day of battle in the dusty heat
       We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
    Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
       And we the harvest of their garnering.
    • "The Unconquered Dead", st. 2. From the University Magazine (1906)
  • Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
       They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
    Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
       And in content may turn them to their sleep.
    • "The Anxious Dead", st. 4. From The Spectator (1917)
  • Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
    Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
    How should they know the vigils that I keep,
             The tears I shed?
    • "Penance", st. 2. From the Canadian Magazine (1896)
  • Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
    Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street.
    • "Then and Now", l. 8. From Massey's Magazine (1896)
  • 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 whiten on the sea fields drear,
       And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
    But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
       The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
    • "The Harvest of the Sea"
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