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 rush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Mary Frye (19320