Lieutenant Colonel John Alexander McCrae was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during World War I and a surgeon during the Second Battle of Ypres, in Belgium.
He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem "In Flanders Fields".
McCrae was born in McCrae House in Guelph, Ontario to Lieutenant-Colonel David McCrae and Janet Simpson Eckford; he was the grandson of Scottish immigrants. He attended the Guelph Collegiate Vocational Institute and became a member of the Guelph militia regiment. The background of his family is military.
McCrae worked on his Bachelor of Arts at the University of Toronto ... more »
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John McCrae Poems
In Flanders Field
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
The Hope Of My Heart
"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."
I saw a city filled with lust and shame, Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on: (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear, And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
A Song Of Comfort
"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may -- Sleep, oh, sleep!" Eugene Field.
The Shadow Of The Cross
At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep, An angel mused: "Is there good or ill
The day is past and the toilers cease; The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey, And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace At the close of day.
One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease From darkening with strife the fair World's light, We who are great in war be great in peace. No longer let us plead the cause by might."
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil, When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought, And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
I Sleep, little eyes That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
The Dying Of Pere Pierre
". . . with two other priests; the same night he died, and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name." Chronicle.
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave Into a nation all his great heart thought, Unsatisfied until he should achieve The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
The Harvest Of The Sea
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.
I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn, To whom came one in angel guise and said, "Is it for labour that a man is born? Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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In Flanders Field
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.