The Rev. James Jackson writes:

I’ve many favorite poems about manhood, but I particularly like the attached. Robert Hayden was a student of Auden (he sounds like Auden), though he has his own style. The discussion on your blog touches many things which Hayden expresses well, so I thought you might want to share it with your readers. 

I like it for the priesthood too. The thought of being on my knees and praying for the parishioners before most of them are up (I usually start the Office of Matins at 4:45 AM) appeals to me. It’s just right.

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 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?

Robert Hayden, 1913-1980

Alex A. from England writes:

Thank you for sharing the poem Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden. The last two lines are especially beautiful:

What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices.

The entire poem touches on our complacency when enfolded by the security of a love that we take for granted. It’s a commonplace to say so, but we often appreciate the love and sacrifices of our parents only when it’s too late to thank them for anything. A similar sentiment is expressed (I think) in The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy:

Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day.
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away!

Rita writes:

Wow, that poem, Those Winter Sundays, got to me. I was mad at my father for so many years because he was strict and insensitive (I thought). This poem reminded me of how he got up, day after day in the New England cold and went to work for his family. He knew what an honest day’s wage was, working for the city, plowing the streets of snow, working as a call fireman. He was a hero and alas, I too didn’t fully realize it until it was too late to tell him.

Laura writes:

Part of being a hero is not needing to be told you are one.

Rita writes:

Children must be taught to appreciate those that care for and nurture them or everyone misses a huge blessing. I grew up in the 1970s. Liberalism’s seeds had been planted and children were allowed to disrespect their parents in ways that would have been unheard of in the earlier part of the century. This sort of thing must be nipped in the bud patiently and consistently by parents. There’s no need to be afraid of correcting our children. We should be afraid of what they and our family will become if we don’t.

Laura writes:

I stand corrected. You’re absolutely right.

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