VIVOS . VOCO . MORTUOS . PLANGO . FULGURA . FRANGO:
words cast by this officer upon a church bell which still rings
in far away Orwell in memory of his father -- and of mine.

By this time the little room was cold. For some reason the guns had awakened
in the Salient. An Indian trooper who had just come up,
and did not yet know the orders, blew "Lights out", -- on a cavalry trumpet.
The sappers work by night. The officer turned and went his way
to his accursed trenches, leaving the verse with me.

John McCrae witnessed only once the raw earth of Flanders hide its shame
in the warm scarlet glory of the poppy. Others have watched
this resurrection of the flowers in four successive seasons,
a fresh miracle every time it occurs. Also they have observed
the rows of crosses lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried
to victory. The dead may sleep. We have not broken faith with them.

It is little wonder then that "In Flanders Fields" has become
the poem of the army. The soldiers have learned it with their hearts,
which is quite a different thing from committing it to memory.
It circulates, as a song should circulate, by the living word of mouth,
not by printed characters. That is the true test of poetry, --
its insistence on making itself learnt by heart. The army has varied
the text; but each variation only serves to reveal more clearly
the mind of the maker. The army says, "AMONG the crosses";
"felt dawn AND sunset glow"; "LIVED and were loved". The army may be right:
it usually is.

Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been more widely known
in the civilian world. It was used on every platform from which men