When I think of the poppy…of its petals red,
I see then the redness of my eyes,
From all the sorrowing tears I shed
For every noble warrior who dies
In foreign lands…and far away from
Homeland shores and skies.

When I think of the poppy…of its black centre part,
The colour of darkness…as dark as coal…
I think of the darkness in my empty heart,
And the dark despair within my soul,
When e’er I hear the funereal bell
The mournful death knell toll.

When I think of the poppy…and of its green leaf,
I think of how green I was…how innocent.
As I, with those who are stricken with grief,
Believed wars were fought with a just intent…
And thought not on how heroic and selfless
Lives are wasteful spent.

As the poppy grows full in many a meadow,
So grows the number of those who fall
In war…to each one a life we owe.
Among these giants I am but very small…
Yet, because of their self-sacrifice
I now stand firm and tall.

I will think once again of the fine poppy flower…
And of that one solemn occasion in November,
On the eleventh day…at the eleventh hour,
When the flame of The Great War died to an ember.
Thenceforth, to honour all our valiant dead…
Of them…I will remember.