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 by spots of kindled fire, the silence
Like a phantom 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 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