Do not stand by my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. as you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand by my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die. Mary Elizabeth Frye