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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.

by Robert Graves
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