Роберт Хейден. Теми зимними воскресеньями

The Winter Sundays 

Sundays too my father got up 
early
And put his clothes on in the 
blue-black 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?