名人诗歌|Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold，

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor^{1 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^{2 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^{3 and lonely offices？}