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 light on snow

I am the sunlight on the ripened grain

I am the gently falling autumn rain

When you wake in the morning hush

I am the swift uplighting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight

I am the soft starlight at night

Do not stand at my grave and cry

I am not there, I did not die.

                                    Mary Elizabeth Frye