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 awake in morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush;
Of quiet birds in circled 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
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