The HyperTexts

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

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 star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

The poem, an elegy, is sometimes called "I Am" due to its repetition of the biblical phrase. Was the poem inspired? The Hebrew name for God, YHWH, means "I am" or "I am that I am." And there does seem to be something magical about the poem, as it was allegedly written by a woman who, to our knowledge, had never written a poem before. Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) was an orphan with no formal education. In 1932 she and her husband hosted a young Jewish woman, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who was fleeing the Holocaust. When she received news that her mother had died in Germany, the heartbroken houseguest told Frye in despair that she had never had the chance to "stand by my mother's grave and shed a tear." Frye found herself composing the poem above on a ripped-off section of a brown paper shopping bag. She said the words "just came to her."

However, Frye's authorship remains disputed. Other candidates include Clare Harner Lyon (1909-1977), who published the poem in a slightly different version as "Immortality" in The Gypsy in 1934, after the sudden death of her brother Olin, and Native American tribes such as the Hopi and Navajo. In Frye's obituary, it was asserted that her authorship was "undisputed" and confirmed by Dear Abby. However, Pauline Phillips and her daughter Jeanne Phillips, who both wrote advice using the pen name Abigail van Buren, allegedly told readers they could not confirm who had written the popular poem.

Here is a prayer-poem that I wrote in a similar burst of compassion during a very dark time in my life:

I Pray Tonight

I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.

I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.

by Michael R. Burch

The HyperTexts