BY the bivouac's fitful flame, <br /> A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;--but first <br /> I note, <br /> The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim outline, <br /> The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire--the silence; <br /> Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving; <br /> The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily <br /> watching me;) <br /> While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts, <br /> Of life and death--of home and the past and loved, and of those that <br /> are far away; <br /> A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground, <br /> By the bivouac's fitful flame. 10<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/by-the-bivouac-s-fitful-flame/
