Illinois State Normal University - Index Yearbook (Normal, IL)

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THE INDEX Gi G' 1919 iN FLANFDERB FLELDS BY JOHN MCCRAE In Flanders, fields the poppies grow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our plaee. While in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly Unheard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago XVe lived, felt dawns, saw sunset's glow Loved and were loved. And new we lie In Flanders' fields. Take up the SlIl'l1,Q'g'lG with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The Torch-be yours to bear it high? If you break faith with us who die Vile shall not sleep. Tho poppies grow In Flanders' fields. 3 gt, 1, N .9 f Y fr I? Ah'llCIill'.X,S Axswna These line Verses appeared in the New York eldvening Post under those written by the late Col. MQC1-ae, entitled ln Flanders Fields. Rest ye in peaee, ye Flanders dead. The fight that ye so bravely led XVe've taken up. And we will keep True faith with you who lie asleep VVith each a eross to mark his bed, And poppies blowing overhead, Where onee his own lifeblood ran red. So let your rest be sweet and deep In Flanders ifields. Fear not that ye have died for naught. The torch ye threw to us is caught. Ten million hands will hold it high, And Freedom 's light shall never die. We 've learned the lesson that ye taught In Flanders lields. -R. W. LILLARD.

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THE INDEX va ve 19199 Every one of you won the War- You and you and you- Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from shore to shore To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming! Where 's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where 's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home? Every one of you won the war, You and you and you-- You that carry an unscathed head, You that halt with a broken tread, And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead! Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession. Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the otlice, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that 's hot on the range. And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Gthers, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently Coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call- Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all! By Permission: From Scribner 's Magazine for February, 1919: Copyright, 1919, by Charles Scribner 's Sons. 9

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