My limbs, my veins dilate; The blood of the world has filled me full--my theme is clear at last. --Banner so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and resolute; I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafened and blinded; My sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, (a little child taught me;) I hear from above, O pennant of war, your ironical call and demand; Insensate! insensate! yet I at any rate chant you, O banner! Not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their prosperity; if need be, you shall have every one of those houses to destroy them; You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of comfort, built with money; May they stand fast, then? Not an hour, unless you, above them and all, stand fast. --O banner! not money so precious are you, nor farm produce you, nor the material good nutriment, Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships; Not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying cargoes, Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues,--But you, as henceforth I see you, Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, ever-enlarging stars; Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touched by the sun, measuring the sky, Passionately seen and yearned for by one poor little child, While others remain busy, or smartly talking, for ever teaching thrift, thrift; O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake, hissing so curious, Out of reach--an idea only--yet furiously fought for, risking bloody death--loved by me! So loved! O you banner, leading the day, with stars brought from the night! Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--O banner and pennant! I too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines are nothing--I see them not; I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only, Flapping up there in the wind. _THE BIVOUAC'S 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. _BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE._