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 the 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 an loved, and of those that are far away;
             A solemn and slow procession there as I it on the ground,
             By the bivouac’s fitful flame.

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