---

Robert Hayden - Those Winter Sundays
Work rating: High

	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?
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.