Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glint on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry

I am not there, I did not die.



Mary Frye