You are my vintage photograph,
where our years stand yellowed and green.
A country swept dewy zephyr you appear,
wonder what you did intervene.
There was a sweep of gold dust here,
I saw the sun's foolhardy preen.
I would sing, but I dont want the pixies to know,
where we hid all that sepia sheen.
"Donot stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there,I did 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 morning rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifitng rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Donot stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there,I did not die."