I am not there. I have not left.

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 snow.
I am the gente showers of rain,
I am the fields of rippening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.

(Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932)