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 star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
On Thanksgiving, in memory of old friends.
From the top, Max, who came to us late in his life as a city dog and grew to love his new world as a country squire, and who astonished my previously petless parents when he stole their hearts away;
Oscar, who lived up to his grouchy Sesame Street namesake, yet never wavered in his chatty affection for almost 20 years;
Baxter, who looked so fierce that pedestrians would scatter before him, yet was the most sweet and gentle of souls;
and the incomparable Saunter, Baxter’s friend, my sister’s beloved companion, intrepid world traveler, bold defender of her family and who loved crawling under the covers on a cold winter’s night.
p.s. The poem is by Mary Elizabeth Frye, written in 1932.