Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

Attributed to Mary E Frye, 1932.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not buried six foot deep.
I’m flying high o’er all the earth
Free and happy, full of mirth.
You will still see me, if you look
Among the pages of each good book.
Whenever hailstones fall in sun,
That’s me above just having fun.
And if you listen, you’ll hear me
Laughing at life’s absurdity
In every witty, wise remark,
Uttered by some bright young spark.
Be still and you will feel my touch,
And know I love you very much.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I finally got my wings to fly.

By Rosemary Slootweg, 2008.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I was not buried six foot deep.
I am in a thousand gales that blow,
I am the traffic stalling snow.
I am the drenching downpours of rain,
I am the fields of flattened grain.
I am in the airless hush,
I am in the noisy rush
Of fighter jets in circling flight,
I am a supernova in the night.
I am in the flowers that didn't bloom,
I am in a student’s messy room.
I hate those bloody birds that sing,
and spoil my sleep, that lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

By Paul Slootweg, 2008.