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 glints on snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain I am the gentle autumn rain When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled 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 Elizabeth Frye














