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 softly falling snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken to morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
I am the birds that glady sing,
I am in every lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I do not die.