By The Bivouac's Fitful Flame

   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.                                     10