By the Bivouac's Fitful Flame

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 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
wond'rous 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.