Elegy

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 sun on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

—Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932.