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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep - Poem 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

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Willam E. Strafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am

and I don't know the kind of person you are

A pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and follow the wrong god home: we may miss our star


For there is many a small betrayal in the mind

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break 

sending with shots the horrible errors of childhood

storming out to play through the broken dike


And as elephants parade holding each others tail,

but if one wanders- the circus won't find the park,

 I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

to know what occurs but not to recognize the fact


And so I appeal to a voice, something shadowy

a remote and important region in all who talk:

though we could fool each other, we should consider-

lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark


For it is important that awake people be awake

or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

the signals we give- yes or no, or maybe-

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.


Edited by littlejoe3
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A chilly night

I rose at the dead of night 
And went to the lattice alone 
To look for my Mother's ghost 
Where the ghostly moonlight shone. 

My friends had failed one by one, 
Middleaged, young, and old, 
Till the ghosts were warmer to me 
Than my friends that had grown cold. 

I looked and I saw the ghosts 
Dotting plain and mound: 
They stood in the blank moonlight 
But no shadow lay on the ground; 
They spoke without a voice 
And they leapt without a sound. 

I called: ' O my Mother dear, ' — 
I sobbed: ' O my Mother kind, 
Make a lonely bed for me 
And shelter it from the wind: 

' Tell the others not to come 
To see me night or day; 
But I need not tell my friends 
To be sure to keep away. ' 

My Mother raised her eyes, 
They were blank and could not see; 
Yet they held me with their stare 
While they seemed to look at me. 

She opened her mouth and spoke, 
I could not hear a word 
While my flesh crept on my bones 
And every hair was stirred. 

She knew that I could not hear 
The message that she told 
Whether I had long to wait 
Or soon should sleep in the mould: 
I saw her toss her shadowless hair 
And wring her hands in the cold. 

I strained to catch her words 
And she strained to make me hear, 
But never a sound of words 
Fell on my straining ear. 

From midnight to the cockcrow 
I kept my watch in pain 
While the subtle ghosts grew subtler 
In the sad night on the wane. 

From midnight to the cockcrow 
I watched till all were gone, 
Some to sleep in the shifting sea 
And some under turf and stone: 
Living had failed and dead had failed 
And I was indeed alone. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti.
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