 |
| Bridget Riley, Untitled (Study for Circular Movement), 1961 |
29 novembro, 2019
24 novembro, 2019
22 novembro, 2019
16 novembro, 2019
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback 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), Those Winter Sundays
02 novembro, 2019
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)