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.
– Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932
Responses
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After my son passed away, a cousin wrote out this same poem and sent it to me in a condolence card. I had never before read this poem and I took in each word. After I read the last line, I felt these words in my heart,
Den no die, MamaDen was the short form of his name, a short form he coined himself, imagine that, a child not quite three. For many years, I wondered if I had imagined him saying those words and not actually hearing him.
But tonight, I know that he had indeed spoken those words. A month ago, I was told to pay attention to the word herald and that the dead live. Then came a feeling about the 3rd of April. Only today, the 3rd of April, do I read your post, this poem, and learn anew that death is not an end but a passage.
Imagined words don’t live for 19 years. Living words do.
I Swear You Will Be Fine 
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