My Grandparents, who both died a few months apart in 2000, are buried under this poem.
My first ride on a motorcycle was behind my Grandfather on a Honda trail 90 in the woods of Eastern Oregon. He was trying to restore a 1940's military Harley until not too long before he died. They lent me the money to buy my first street bike when I was 17.
They weren't religious folks, but they were spiritual.
I never met any of the people who have passed away here, but I think this is appropriate to all.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
---Mary Elizabeth Frye---
My first ride on a motorcycle was behind my Grandfather on a Honda trail 90 in the woods of Eastern Oregon. He was trying to restore a 1940's military Harley until not too long before he died. They lent me the money to buy my first street bike when I was 17.
They weren't religious folks, but they were spiritual.
I never met any of the people who have passed away here, but I think this is appropriate to all.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
---Mary Elizabeth Frye---
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