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.