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 circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.

Do not stand
	By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
	I did not die.

/Immortality
/Clare Harner, Topeka, Kan.
/The Gypsy of December 1934