Poetry

I was catching up on my Fresh Air listening today and came across a show about poetry. The poet Robert Hayden's recording of his poem "Those Winter Sundays" was played and it is so very beautiful so I am putting it here so I will never forget.Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack 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?