This is a poem by Dr. John MacRae [1872-1918]. It can be found here

In flander fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: high 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 flander 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 flander fields.