Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousands 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 awake in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star - shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousands 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 awake in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star - shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
—A great friend of my mother and father, Bob McCarthey, passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was such a warm and funny man. Clau and I could not attend his service, but my father sent me the program, and this poem was in it. Rest in Peace, Mr. McCarthey.
