Funeral poem

My sister-in-law chose this poem to be read by the minister at my brother's cremation service a couple of weeks ago (I gave the eulogy, which is probably the most emotionally devastating ordeal I've ever been through). I hadn't encountered it before, but I can see why it's so popular on such occasions.

Curiously enough, it has become widely-known as an 'anonymous' piece (and was so described on the 'order of service' card at my brother's send-off); although I gather that it is now fairly definitely attributed as an early work of the American writer, Mary Elizabeth Frye.

My sis-in-law was convinced it had been written by a woman she used to know at her church when she was younger. And I'm sure that many other people have been similarly self-deluded that they knew the real author; it happens so easily with 'anonymous' works. I don't like to rob my sis-in-law of her illusions; sometimes it's best to stick with the story we prefer (as I've said before: "Print the legend.").

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 sun 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.