I Am Stretched on Your Grave I am stretched on your grave And would lie there forever; If your hands were in mine I’d be sure we’d not sever. My apple tree, my brightness, ’Tis time we were together For I smell of the earth And am stained by the weather. When my family thinks That I’m safe in my bed From night until morning I am stretched at your head, Calling out to the air With tears hot and wild My grief for the girl That I loved as a child. Do you remember The night we were lost In the shade of the blackthorn And the chill of the frost? Thanks be to Jesus We did What was right, And your maidenhead still Is your pillar of light. The priests and the friars Approach me in dread Because I still love you My love and you dead, And would still be your shelter From rain and from storm, And with you in the cold grave I cannot sleep warm. Source: Frank O'Connor; The Little Monasteries; Dublin; Dolmen Press; 1963, 1976 (1976 ed.); pp.30-31