Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

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.

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Comments (1)

The Smith He rest his hammer alongside the wall And ask the boy that turns the bellows to not stop at all For the coals must glow and yield the heat Which when he returns to the metal, beat. For in his mind's eye a shape is formed That will impart a meaning not to be scorned Twisted and hammered until the poetry At once will be his mark on history. The smell of sulphur fills the air As the blazing heat produces a char So this day the poem will be an acrid one That burns the eyes and heart of some. For he writes of the day when the world stood still And gave thanks for the men and women who ever will Give up their time on earth to others As THEY are our sisters and brothers. And the sound of his anvil is loud and clear - Give thanks for those who are far and near. s