Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
 
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

COMMENTS

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2 responses to “Those Winter Sundays – Robert Hayden”

1. mmmkile says:

   03/02/2011 at 8:52 pm

   We studied this poem in English last year, and only now do I appreciate the 40 minutes we spent slaving over it. Beautiful stuff really.

   Reply
2. Ken says:

   03/02/2011 at 11:46 pm

   Wow, what a beauty! Hayden's is a name I dimly recall. I'll soon be making a closer acquaintance.

   Reply