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Walt Whitman - By The Bivouac`s Fitful Flame
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BY the bivouac`s fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;—but first
         I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields` and woods` dim outline,
The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire—the silence;
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving;
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
         watching me
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that
         are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac`s fitful flame.
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