Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush.
I am the distant cloud in circled flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am the silence in a room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
“
| — | Mary E. Frye |
