Alone 

In my attic all alone
Now my man, praise God, is gone,
And my son, the rascal, too,
And my face that would not keep,
And my eyes that would not sleep,
Dreaming things not worth a thought
I have dreamed a thing that’s true,
And let fools have all they sought.
I have dreamed the truest thing—
A better end than pope or king—
That I’ll have ease of all my pain
Some night when Christ is born again.
All day long the rain will fall
And the river overflow, 
And the floods creep up the wall,
And the big ships come and go
And sail upon the solid land,
And I shall see and understand.
At eight that night I’ll rise from bed
And wash myself from toe to head,
At nine I’ll put the kettle down
And brew strong tea, at ten put on
My habit and pray out the hour;
And then I'll light and fix secure
Candles in four brass candlesticks
About my table-ends, and fix
Myself between them calm and tight,
And, till the end comes, sing delight.
I’ll sing no more, the house will shake,
The rotten walls will reel and break,
The floods will rise and rise and rise,
And lift me up, and like a queen
With my bright candles and shut eyes
They’ll take me, beautiful and serene,
Along the street, and every height
Will be playing music in the night,
And Shandon bells will ring out sweet
As I float down through Patrick Street,
And ships blow sirens as I ride
From Patrick Street to the main tide; 
And the Lord Bishop on the hill
And all the anointed choirs will kneel,
And sing as I go out to sea,
Domine, adoremus te.



Source: O'Connor, Frank; Three Old Brothers and Other Poems; 1936;
London; Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd.; pp.13-14