We died there where the poppies grow,

lose ourselves in eternal sleeps.

Though our graves lie row after row,

in England waits a girl who weeps.

And after all, why should she cry?

‘Tis not as if she won’t forget.

While we in our war graves will lie,

she’ll rest happy, in her bed.

But poppies witness, through the years,

our hero’s death, now long ago.

They still remind of silent tears,

they still remind of her once woe.