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 glint on the snow
I am the sunlight on a ripen grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you wake in morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush of Quiet
Birds in circling flight
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I did not die.
For I am the breeze flowing by.
Mary Frye 1932