Leaves of Grass, by 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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