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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. 10

poem by Walt Whitman
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The Burial of the Reverend Gilfillan

On the Gilfillan burial day,
In the Hill o' Balgay,
It was a most solemn sight to see,
Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,
All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,
That death had suddenly taken away,
And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay.

There were about three thousand people in the procession alone,
And many were shedding tears, and several did moan,
And their bosoms heaved with pain,
Because they knew they would never look upon his like again.

There could not be fewer than fifty carriages in the procession that day,
And gentlemen in some of them that had come from far away,
And in whispers some of them did say,
As the hearse bore the precious corpse away,
Along the Nethergate that day.

I'm sure he will be greatly missed by the poor,
For he never turned them empty-handed away from his door;
And to assist them in distress it didn't give him pain,
And I'm sure the poor will never look upon his like again.'

On the Gilfillan burial day, in the Hill o' Balgay,
There was a body of policemen marshalled in grand array
And marched in front of the procession all the way;
Also the relatives and friends of the deceas'd,
Whom I hope from all sorrows has been releas'd,
and whose soul I hope to heaven has fled away,
To sing with saints above for ever and aye.

The provost, magistrates, and town council were in the procession that day;
Also Mrs Gilfillan, who cried and sobbed all the way
For her kind husband, that was always affable and gay,
Which she will remember until her dying day.

When the procession arrived in the Hill o' Balgay,
The people were almost as hush as death, and many of them did say --
As long as we live we'll remember the day
That the great Gilfillan was buried in the Hill o'Balgay.

When the body of the great Gilfillan was lowered into the grave,
'Twas then the people's hearts with sorrow did heave;
And with tearful eyes and bated breath,
Mrs Gilfillan lamented her loving husband's death.

Then she dropped a ringlet of immortelles into his grave,
Then took one last fond look, and in sorrow did leave;
And all the people left with sad hearts that day,
And that ended the Gilfillan burial in the Hill o' Balgay.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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There Is a Solemn Wind Tonight

There is a solemn wind to-night
That sings of solemn rain;
The trees that have been quiet so long
Flutter and start again.

The slender trees, the heavy trees,
The fruit trees laden and proud,
Lift up their branches to the wind
That cries to them so loud.

The little bushes and the plants
Bow to the solemn sound,
And every tiniest blade of grass
Shakes on the quiet ground.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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You May Have Obtained Nama

You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

Lord resides within you, but you couldn't discern him;
You wander aimlessly thinking him to be afar;
You calculate about the One beyond the calculations;
You limit the Illimitable
And in this state of twoness, you count your futile beads!
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

You try to be Harijan without having Hari!
How can pangs of hunger subside by a bash of hollow words?
How can throes of separation subside by mere donning of ascetic clothes?
It is like the futile roaring of rainless clouds!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

You think you have become harijan by merely singing lord's praises,
You try to rival a swan, when your deeds are those of a crow!
The lord will indeed disregard you!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

Says Narsinh, only he is worth our obeisance,
Whose mind has dissolved into the formless;
In whom the delusion of the world of differences is shattered
And in whom the flame of renunciation is resplendent.
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without the groom!

poem by Narsinh Mehta
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King Bibler's Army

It was ten years ago when the belle of the village
Gave here her hand to the young millionaire,
Every toungue (even those of the bells in the steeple)
Saying "Joy to the Heav'n-blest pair!"
She was sweet as the rosebud that blooms in the valley;
He was manly, and noble, and brave.
Tell me, where are they now?
In the sad-eyed procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.

Hark! hark! a pageant passes
(tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp):
I hear the tread of moving masses
(tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp)
O Heaven save our young men --
'tis King Bibler's Army,
Marching down, down, down to the grave.

At the head of the boat are the dashing lieutenants
Who entice young recruits into line;
Arm in arm, three abreast, they keep step with the music,
Bearing goblets of blood red wine.
In the rear, by and by, we shall see them together,
As they stagger along on the pave,
With their wives and their children, a rag-robed procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.

From the front to the rear is the rule of promotion
In the army King Bibler commands;
And the pension is pov'rty, disease and dishonor,
With a forfeit of home and lands.
So the friend that was treated to cordials and juleps,
Will be treated at last like a slave,
As he fags at the end of the chaingang procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.

Would you fill up the ranks? let your town send its quota:
Seventy thousand recruits must be found,
For the gravediggers reckon they bury that number
Every year in the cold, cold ground.
Yet the rest hobble on, and the colors they carry,
Though in tatters, triumphantly wave,
For they vanquish themselves in this madman's procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.

poem by Henry Clay Work
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Coitus

The gilded phaloi of the crocuses
are thrusting at the spring air.
Here is there naught of dead gods
But a procession of festival,
A procession, Giulio Romano,
Fit for your spirit to dwell in.
Dione, your nights are upon us.

The dew is upon the leaf.
The night about us is restless.

poem by Ezra Pound
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There was a great cathedral

There was a great cathedral.
To solemn songs,
A white procession
Moved toward the altar.
The chief man there
Was erect, and bore himself proudly.
Yet some could see him cringe,
As in a place of danger,
Throwing frightened glances into the air,
A-start at threatening faces of the past.

poem by Stephen Crane
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Let buried get rest here

Let buried lie in here and get rest,
No suitable place to remain as guest,
End of peaceful life after long quest,
Eternal peace granted after earnest request,

We feel so bad at laying of wreath,
Soaking voices and cry with deep breath,
Experienced once after natural death,
We always prayed God for rest under oath,

Need no flowers, prayers and distress call,
Procession with candle lights when fear fall,
Roses bed underneath and protected by wall,

Delighted at step coming to a halt sudden,
Never have we found it disturbance or burden,
Trees bow more with fruits laden,
Joy with emotions as last journey golden,

We hear from distance a procession mute,
All faces look sullen even though very cute,
It is Almighty’s call so silently execute,
Last leg of journey even claim you refute

From beginning to end found no home,
Some buried in ground some stayed at dome,
Final destination in nature’s refuge,
Whether thin body or size huge,

Whole life struggled for a mental peace,
Never had a chance but always miss,
We have home here and buried with grace,
“Rest in peace” is granted at proper place,

Let people come and not disturb,
In prayer no memory and wound rub.
We have no past buried with us,
But happy as we are even with missed bus,

You may all come and find place,
It is no hut, mansion or palace,
Think of goodness with no mad race
Final journey with slow and steady pace

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Pan Of Sorrows

I will give you the grain of tears,
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
O, tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.

I am late already,
The shadows are fading,
The cattle have returned,
From the forest.
The birds have raised their clamor.
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
Tender of the fire.

Hurry, be quick,
I have far to go,
To the place
Where my companions have gone.
I have heard the road to that town is difficult
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

When my turn comes,
Your bale of kindling is damp.
Why has your earthen pan
Become flaccid?
What has gone wrong with your fire?
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Mine is just a handful of grains,
Roast them, and let me go on my way,
Don't leave them raw,
Roast them well.
I beg you, bring an end to this wrangling,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

The wind has dropped,
Its mournful weeping ended.
A sweet heat
Is rising in the stars.
My breaths are like a marriage procession
Whose bridegroom is displeased.
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
O tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.

poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi
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Surrenderee

the noise at noon
can be heard
between our
distances

you walk too fast
and so i followed
the procession of
your footsteps

maybe it was i who
was too slow or maybe
it was you who was
walking too fast

and then i was thinking
things over between us
you are too fast for me
i decided to change
my direction looking
for the path who shall
embrace my slow steps

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cup Of Darkness

You refuse to grow in a grim challenge.
Already the witch-hunt has started.
It was strange to step outside your body
and don’t look at the death
on your doorstep.
Softly flows the dolour in God’s shining eyes.

I have run out my thoughts
my brain wave.
shame to be still breathing.
Starving, I eat the howls
and drink the limbs.
Nowhere green inks writes the passion
A procession of pain
starts in ecstasy.

Your extinct past has entered my body
It shakes and brings tremors
Give me a cup of darkness
I am going to burn my bridges.

poem by Satish Verma
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Life Has A Great Customer!

Life is having one great customer,
The Lord in disguise in every life,

Blessed is the lotus, which blooms in mudfilled lake,
Golden petals lotus, in trifle suffered hearts,
May it be an Einstein,
or may a Gibran,
Such births take place in this pool,
Filled with so many problems!

Yet the love is so great,
I love my beloved more than my life,
This life is his,
This life is for him,
Every moment I die and reborn in him,

Every sound of rustling leaves,
My beloved's call,
With every wind the fragrance of beloved cometh,

Every moving cloud shows,
Different face of my beloved,
With every raise and fall of a wave,
My beloved shows up,
In every golden rays of the Morning Sun is my beloved's procession,
Rooster calling, wake up see the glories procession of beloved,
Birds singing praise of the beloved,
In dewdrops his world shineth,
Everyday if one rooster or bird gone,
It take the rebirth to sing his glory,
Every dew dropp evaporated appear next morning,
So am I to die every moment,
To this world I am dead,
Ever living and sleeping in beloved's heart,
Whenever I want my eyes to fill his glory,
I come out of his heart,
Stand aside, and look at my beloved's beautiful face!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Horns of Hattin

Identified with beatitudes
The plains will reveal ancient feuds
Corresponds with the text narrative
There lacks no other comparative

Karnei Hittin, Victory Dome
A holy battle for their procession for home

A sermon was mounting onto the site
And Christian Crusades were claiming their right
Send the shell down the cast-iron barrel
Saladin and tinder staging imperil

The Horns of Hattin, Victory Dome
A holy battle for their procession for home

poem by Mason Maestro
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She At His Funeral

THEY bear him to his resting-place--
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

poem by Thomas Hardy
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She, at His Funeral

They bear him to his resting-place—
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger’s space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Far away from you [Departe sunt de tine]

I'm far away from you, watching the fire dance,
Thinking that in my life, I've never had a chance.
It seems I've lived too long, that eighty years have fled
I am as old as winter, I think that you are dead.
The memories are flooding my soul like bitter rivals
Reviving on my mind the past with all its trifles;
The windows now are trembling, because the wind is knocking,
Sweet tales of life my mind is spinning and recalling.
And then I see you passing, a phantom from the skies
With small and chilly hands, with tears in your big eyes;
You cling around my neck and I can see you're shy
You'd like to tell me something, but then you stop and sigh...
I hug my only wealth of love and wondrous things,
With kisses we are joining our lives, despite their stings...
To silence all my thoughts in vain I wish so bad
If only I could forget the good luck that I had,
To leave behind that moment when you departed slowly...
You will have been long dead, I will be old and lonely!

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Slow Moving Sea

If you ever feel youll lose your dreams
Or your hope seems too far gone
Ill bring the distance to your door
You couldnt ask for any more
You were around when I needed a friend
You were the means you were the end
Youll be the one Ill turn to now
Theres gonna be some hard times coming down
Without you the world would be so crowded
Without you the moon would be so clouded
Without you I can be anyone
Anyone at all but myself
If ever your candle wont blow out
Or your sorrow seems so interrupted
Well Ill be the first to bring the darkness down
Ill be the silence at your side
Without you the music couldnt move me
The words would ring true
But the tune would feel so empty
Without you I can be anyone
Anyone at all but myself
But myself
Wish I was a slow moving sea
Moving away from the land so cautiously
Id find me an island to surround
Just like you did as I was feeling down
As I was feeling down
Without you the world would be so crowded
Without you the moon would be so clouded
Without you I can be anyone
Anyone at all but myself
Oh but myself
Wish I was a slow moving sea
Wish I was a slow moving sea
Love is like a slow moving sea
Keeping in touch with eternity
Wish I was a slow, slow, slow, slow moving sea
Love is like a slow moving sea

song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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May seventeenth

Wergeland's statue on May seventeenth
Saw the procession. And as its rear-guard,
Slow marching masses,
Strong men, and women with flower-decked presence;
Come now the peasants, come now the peasants.

Österdal's forest's magnificent chieftain
Bore the old banner. Soon as we see it
Blood-red uplifted,
Greet it the thousands in thought of its story:
That is our glory, that is our glory!

Never that lion bore crown that was foreign,
Never that cloth was by Dannebrog cloven.
I saw the
future
,
When with that banner by Wergeland's column
Peasants stood solemn, peasants stood solemn.

Most of our loss in the times that have vanished,
Most of our victories, most of our longing,
Most that is vital:
Deeds of the past and the future's bold daring
Peasants are bearing, peasants are bearing.

Sorely they suffered for sins once committed,
But they arise now. Here in the Storting
Stalwart they prove it,
All, as they come from our land's every region,
Peasants Norwegian, peasants Norwegian.

Hold what they won, with a will to go farther;
Whole we must have independence and honor!
All of us know it:
Wergeland's summer bears soon its best flower,-
Power in peasants, peasants in power.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Camps Of Green

NOT alone those camps of white, O soldiers,
When, as order'd forward, after a long march,
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessen'd, we halted for the
night;
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping
asleep in our tracks;
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up began to
sparkle;
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through the dark,
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the
drums,
We rose up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over, and resumed
our journey,
Or proceeded to battle. 10

Lo! the camps of the tents of green,
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep
filling,
With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it too only
halting awhile,
Till night and sleep pass over?)

Now in those camps of green--in their tents dotting the world;
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them--in the old and
young,
Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content
and silent there at last,
Behold the mighty bivouac-field, and waiting-camp of all,
Of corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and
generals all,
And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we
fought, 20
(There without hatred we shall all meet.)

For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-
camps of green;
But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,
Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.

poem by Walt Whitman
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Bitter Journey

Tired, the weary traveller trudges on
just a little further now
a whole life time's wayward journey
t'ward a fitful night's sleep.

Daydreams the distance away
each hour is the same
as weary limbs press on
destination closes in.

Remember the time when spirit ledger balanced
and food was the fantasy of forgotten dreams
now only the road
a wound that never heals.

Outwardly vivid colours appear as a procession
a lifetime of the birth/dream/death/dream/birth cycle
the waking hours doze and drift
every one is time closer to eternity.

poem by Shaun McGurgan
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The Recessional

Now along the solemn heights
Fade the Autumn's altar-lights;
   Down the great earth's glimmering chancel
Glide the days and nights.

Little kindred of the grass,
Like a shadow in a glass
   Falls the dark and falls the stillness;
We must rise and pass.

We must rise and follow, wending
Where the nights and days have ending, --
   Pass in order pale and slow
Unto sleep extending.

Little brothers of the clod,
Soul of fire and seed of sod,
   We must fare into the silence
At the knees of God.

Little comrades of the sky,
Wing to wing we wander by,
   Going, going, going, going,
Softly as a sigh.

Hark, the moving shapes confer,
Globe of dew and gossamer,
   Fading and ephemeral spirits
In the dusk astir.

Moth and blossom, blade and bee,
Worlds must go as well as we,
   In the long procession joining
Mount and star and sea.

Toward the shadowy brink we climb
Where the round year rolls sublime,
   Rolls, and drops, and falls forever
In the vast of time.

Like a plummet plunging deep
Past the utmost reach of sleep,
   Till remembrance has no longer
Care to laugh or weep.

poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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