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