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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 sunlight 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.


She was a shooting star,
Her smile so bright and rare.
That by the time that you had blinked,
There was no sign it had been there.



Her touch was as light as a feather's,
She drifted through life as a pocket of air.
Every move that she made went unnoticed,
A breeze the only slight sign she was there.
Nobody acknowledged her presence,
And it wasn't until she had started to leave,
That people would instantly wonder,
Why it became so much harder to breathe.



Here we are,
With all our love and loneliness,
All our need dripping from our mouths, Like a desert sky full of stars,
On a moonless night,
Hoping that someone sees us,
Daring the darkness to become daylight,
As unlikely as it might seem.

~Vincent Van Gone


Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
Dead love.

His heart, that strained and yearned and strove

As toward the sundawn strives the lark,
Is cold as all the old joy thereof.

Dead men, re-arisen from dust, may hark
When rings the trumpet blown above:
It will not raise from out the dark
Dead love.

~Algernon Charles Swinburne


She's the ever-changing winter wind,
A gust of clean crisp air,
Roaring through the living room,
And tousling up your hair,
She whistles through the doorways,
As she sails right down the hall,
Dancing through the golden leaves,
That mark the end of fall,
But like the frozen winter wind,
She bends to no one's will,
Some days she is a hurricane,
And other days she's still,
There's moments when her laughter,
Could give flight to paper planes,
But her silence can convince you,
Trees will never sway again,
She'll push the clouds out of the sky,
And stir the wildest seas,
But no matter how you know her,
You cannot predict her breeze,
There's days when you'll feel foolish,
For the scarf wrapped round your throat,
But with her there's no knowing,
When you ought to wear a coat.



We were two old souls
Since time began-
Before light was measured in years,
We are stars,
That fell from glittering skies,
To find each other here.

~Lang Leav

All rights belong to Stephanie Meyer. All twilight, besides my original characters and Sophie and everyone in this book that was not in the real twilight books, everything and everyone else belongs to Stephanie Meyer.

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