I do not stand at your grave and weep,
you are not there, you do not sleep.
You are a thousand winds that blow.
You are the diamond glints on snow.
You are the sunlight on ripened grain.
You're the gentle autumn rain.
When I awaken in the morning's hush,
you're the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circled flight.
You're the soft stars that shine at night.
I do not stand at your grave and cry;
you are not there, you did not die.
