Department of English
Faculty of Arts, Chulalongkorn University
"Those
Winter Sundays"
(1962)
Robert Hayden
(August 4, 1913 – February 25, 1980)
Draft, National
Bahá'í Archives |
A Ballad of Remembrance (1962) | |||
Sundays too my
father got up early and put his clothes on in the stiffening cold, and then with hands cracked and aching from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering and breaking and smell the trellised blooming of the velvet heat. When the rooms were warm, he'd call me. Sighing I would rise and dress, dreading the chronic angers of that house, Dreading my father's kindness most of all; and had but monosyllables for him who'd driven out the cold -- who had as well polished my best shoes. What did I know of love's austere and rich and lonely offices? |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 |
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? |
"Those Winter Sundays" Notes
This poem was first published in A Ballad of Remembrance (1962), Hayden's fifth poetry collection.
1 Sundays:
14 austere:
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Last
updated
June 2, 2013