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  • 2655
  • Date :
  • 12/29/2011

Those Winter Sundays

winter

Robert Hayden

 

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueback 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?

Hope for Everyone

Hope for Everyone

Hope for Everyone
The Greatest Artist

The Greatest Artist

The Greatest Artist
Anger fills my heart and soul

Anger fills my heart and soul

Anger fills my heart and soul
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