Tuesday, November 14, 2017

The Beauty of Grief

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

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932