Who wrote "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"?
"These laid the world away; poured out the red / Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be / Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, / That men call age ... "
"'Jack fell as he’d have wished,' the Mother said, / And folded up the letter that she’d read. / 'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke / In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. / She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud / Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed."
"Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots / But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; / Drunk with fatigue deaf even to the hoots/ Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind."
"Now that you too must shortly go the way / Which in these bloodshot years uncounted men / Have gone in vanishing armies day by day, / And in their numbers will not come again: / I must not strain the moments of our meeting / Striving for each look, each accent, not to miss, / Or question of our parting and our greeting, / Is this the last of all? is this - or this?"
"If any question why we died, / Tell them, because our fathers lied."
"When you see millions of the mouthless dead / Across your dreams in pale battalions go, / Say not soft things as other men have said, / That you'll remember. For you need not so"
"If you should die, think only this of me / In that still quietness where is space for thought, / Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be, / And men may rest themselves and dream of nought: / That in some place a mystic mile away / One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup / Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day / Once more, and now, has raised the standard up"
"'At least it wasn't your fault' I hear them console / When they come back, the few that will come back. / I feel those handshakes now. 'Well, on the whole / You didn't miss much. I wish I had your knack / Of stopping out. You still can call your soul / Your own, at any rate. What a priceless slack / You've had, old chap. It must have been top-hole. / How's poetry? I bet you've written a stack.'"
"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: / Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. / At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will remember them"