By Mary 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 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 […]

Since it falls unto my lot, That I should rise and you should not, I’ll gently rise, and I’ll softly call, “Good night and joy be with you all.”