Do not stand at my grave and weep

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 circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry, 

   I am not there; I did not die.           

                      

                                                      -- Mary Elizabeth Frye

I came across this first in a favourite light read of mine, Alan Titchmarsh's Rosie. I love the serenity of the poem. It's sad, but it soothes too. Sometimes.