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. 10