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.