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By the Bivouac’s Fitful Flame
por
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 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
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