CreationEarth Nature Photos
Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Those Winter Sundays

 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?

by Robert Hayden
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - Those Winter SundaysEmail Poem |

Top Robert Hayden Poems

Analysis and Comments on Those Winter Sundays

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Those Winter Sundays here.

Commenting has been disabled for now.