Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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 left 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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