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 gentle Autumn’s rain When you awaken in the morning 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. By Mary Elizabeth Frye