The comfort of words

One of my favorite authors, Anthony Powell, once tried to console someone with a passage from literature (I forget what). The person was completely unmoved, and Anthony Powell concluded that only those who already love words (or as he put it "possess literature already") can be comforted by them (or it).

I'm not so sure about that.

Of course I am a reader, but I think almost anyone would find this moving -- and comforting. I do, anyhow. .

Do not stand at my grave and forever 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’s 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 forever cry.


I am not there. I did not die.

And yes, someone I love very much did die recently. My mother died on May 1. And now whenever I see one of these things I'll think of her