There are bits of him broken and bloody, to show you the place where he fell;
I’ve reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well.
And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last,
Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast;
Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it passed.
Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were bloody good mates o’ mine;
Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine;
What’s left of them’s filth and corruption.… Where is the Fire Divine?
I’ll tell you.… At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part,
Three radiant spirits I’m seeing, high heart revealing to heart.
And they’re building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.
Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed!
And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled,
Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten.… Well, who shall say that they failed!
