| Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918. |
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| 38. Not Dead |
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| 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. | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| Breaks his slow smile. | |
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