I am a thousand winds that blow



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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 ripened grain;
I am the gentle rain.
When you waken 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.
I am not there.
I did not die.
For everything beautiful that you see
will bring a memory of me.


1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
In loving memory of Noël.

Yours truly