Stephenson's Graded Classical Poem

IN FLANDERS FIELD

In Flanders, a part of France, occurred some of the fiercest fighting of the World War. There thousands of soldiers lie buried, their graves, in parallel rows, marked by crosses. This poem is written as if by one who had died in battle and been buried on the field. (See page 11)

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our places. 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 lift it high!
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

WHAT MAKES A NATION
What makes a nation? Is it ships or states or
flags or guns?
Or is it that great common heart which beats in all
her sons?--
This makes a nation great and strong and certain
to endure,
This subtle inner voice that thrills a man and makes him sure;