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