Robert Graves

(1895 - 1985 / London / England)

Not Dead

Poem 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.

Topic(s) of this poem: trees


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Read poems about / on: happy, smile, pain, tree



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003

Poem Edited: Wednesday, December 24, 2014