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 hark 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.
Not Dead
Robert Graves
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Poem topics: pain, smile, voice, laugh, walking, cool, slow, happy, strong, simple, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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Write your comment about Not Dead poem by Robert Graves
Patricia Grayson: Is "hark" meant to be "bark?" A lovely poem
[email protected]: Rough hark of the friendly oak, is the "hark" really "bark?"
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