In Flanders fields where poppies blow,
Beneath the crosses, row on row,
We blacks an endless vigil keep--
Yea, we though dead can never sleep--
Ingratitude has made it so.
Why are we here? Why did we go
From loving homes, that need us so?
Was it for naught we gave our lives,
On Flanders fields?
Ye blacks who live, to you we throw
The torch: be yours to face the foe
At home: and ever hold it high,
Fight for the things for which we die,
That we may sleep, where poppies grow,
In Flanders fields.
First published in The Crisis, July 1920