by Clare Harner

Do not stand

By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep -
I am the thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glints in snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift up-flinging rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the day transcending soft night.
Do not stand 

By my grave, and cry -
I am not there.
I did not die.