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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.

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