Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918.

38. Not Dead

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.