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The following poem was written by an anonymous soldier in Northern Ireland who foresaw his impending death.
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 sunlight 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.
Like many elegies, the poem transforms a natural lament over death into a birth, a celebration of immortality. In fact, mutability, the inevitability and power of change, is at the heart of a form that so deeply meditates on death. Everything dies, the poet begins, and I am staggeringly saddened by it. I miss my departed loved ones so much I don’t know how I can go on. So I sing to death, to the departed who are still somehow a part of me. In my song, if I am lucky, death blossoms, becoming another necessary, beautiful part of the experience of life itself. I celebrate the departed. I honor the times we had. I celebrate, and I pass it on, preserving history and helping those who come after me to better understand the rituals that define and deepen human existence. And that is poetry as spiritual practice.
Thank you so much for this!!