Skip to main content

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  
By the bivouac's fitful flame.
Back to top