Sundays too my father got up early

    and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold，

    then with cracked hands that ached

    from labor¹ 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 chronic² 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 austere³ and lonely offices？