Walt Whitman

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 field's and woods' dim outline,
The darkness, lit spots of kindled fire - the silence ;
Like a pahntom 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 wond'rous thoughts,
Of life, and death - of home and the pass 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.