Not Dead

By Robert Graves

Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain,  

I know that David’s with me here again.  

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.  

Caressingly I stroke  

Rough bark of the friendly oak.

A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.  

Turf burns with pleasant smoke;  

I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.  

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.  

Over the whole wood in a little while

Breaks his slow smile.