John McCrae

John Alexander McCrae was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist, and soldier during World War I. He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem 'In Flanders Fields.' Born on November 30, 1872, in Guelph, Ontario, McCrae died of pneumonia on January 28, 1918, in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France. His work has been a significant influence on war poetry and remembrance traditions.

November 30, 1872

January 28, 1918

English, French

John McCrae

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A Song of Comfort

        "Sleep, weary ones, while ye may --
            Sleep, oh, sleep!"
                    Eugene Field.


        Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
        The soft wind sang to the dead below:
        "Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
        And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
        The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
        And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

        To the winter sky when the nights were long
        The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
        "Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
        And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
        The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
        And the path grow rough when the night came down."...

John McCrae

Anarchy

        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.

        And speaking, fell before that brutish race
        Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
        While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
        Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.

        "Speak not of God!    In centuries that word
        Hath not been uttered!    Our own king are we."
        And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
        And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.

John McCrae

Disarmament

        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."

        But from a million British graves took birth
        A silent voice -- the million spake as one --
        "If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
        Lay by the sword!    Its work and ours is done."

John McCrae

Equality

        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;
        Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
        Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
        And all men said, "He gave his life to teach
        The task of honour to a sordid land!"
        Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
        One at his humble toil with cheery face,
        Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
        Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.
        If he be greater that his people blessed
        Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.

John McCrae

Eventide

        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.

        Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,
        As he homeward turns, with the long day done,
        Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
            Of the setting sun.

        Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)
        The promise of rest in the fading light;
        But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
            At the fall of night.

        And some see only a golden sky
        Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide
        To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
            At the eventide.

    ...

John McCrae

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

        If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
        Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
        "Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
        Thy work:    the harvest rests with Him alone."

John McCrae

In Flanders Fields

                    In Flanders fields the poppies grow
                    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

John McCrae

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, t...

John McCrae

Isandlwana

                            Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
                                The grey of a pauper's gown,
                            A soldier's grave in Zululand,
                                And a woman in Brecon Town.

                    My little lad for a soldier boy,
                    (Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
                    My eyes for tears and his for joy
                    When he went from Brecon Town,
                    His for the flags and the gallant sights
                    His for the medals and his for the fights,
                    And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
                    At home in Brecon Town.

                    They say he's laid beneath a tree,
                    (Come back to B...

John McCrae

Mine Host

        There stands a hostel by a travelled way;
        Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
        Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
        "How have ye fared?"    They answer him, the most,
        "This lodging place is other than we sought;
        We had intended farther, but the gloom
        Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
        Yet will we lodge.    Thou hast abundant room."

        Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
        No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
        No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
        But silence of a multitude of dead.
        "Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"
        And to his chamber leads each tired guest.

John McCrae

Penance

        My lover died a century ago,
        Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,
        Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
            The peace of death.

        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?

        Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
        Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,
        Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
            More blest than I.

        'Twas just last year -- I heard two lovers pass
        So near, I caught the tender words he said:
        To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
            ...

John McCrae

Quebec

1608-1908


                    Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong --
                    Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, --
                    "The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
                    Who winneth me must win me by the sword."

                    Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
                    That strong men battled for in savage hate,
                    Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
                    Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?

John McCrae

Recompense

        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!"
        Then gladly one forsook his task undone
        And with the Tempter went his slothful way,
        The other toiled until the setting sun
        With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.

        Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast
        Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.
        "Labour hath other recompense than rest,
        Else were the toiler like the fool," I said;
        "God meteth him not less, but rather more
        Because he sowed and others reaped his store."

John McCrae

Slumber Songs

        I

        Sleep, little eyes
        That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
        Be comforted!    No grief of night can weigh
        Against the joys that throng thy coming day.

        Sleep, little heart!
        There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
        Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
        And sorrows that will dim the after years.
        Sleep, little heart!


        II

        Ah, little eyes
        Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
        That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
        The benediction of the falling snow!

        Sleep, little heart
        That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!
        The years that come and go with silent feet

John McCrae

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.)

                    O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
                    The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
                    Then let your mighty chorus witness be
                    To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

                    Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
                    That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
                    That we will onward till we win or fall,
                    That we will keep the faith for which they died.

John McCrae

The Captain

1797


                            Here all the day she swings from tide to tide,
                                Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain,
                            A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride,
                                Yet unashamed:    her memories remain.

                    It was Nelson in the 'Captain', Cape St. Vincent far alee,
                    With the 'Vanguard' leading s'uth'ard in the haze --
                    Little Jervis and the Spaniards and the fight that was to be,
                    Twenty-seven Spanish battleships, great bullies of the sea,
                    And the 'Captain' there to find her day of days.

                    Right into them the 'Vanguard' leads, but with a sudden tack
...

John McCrae

The Dead Master

        Amid earth's vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime:
        To-day around him surges from the silences of Time
        A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad,
        Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-hall of God.

John McCrae

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.


        "Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give
        To these poor bones that presently must be
        But carrion; since I have sought to live
        Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,
        I shall not lack!    Where would ye have me lie?
        High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:
        Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?"
        Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,
        Below the altar of the hills; and night
        Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines
        That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light
        Grop...

John McCrae

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