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song created                                

Tuesday, April 24, 2018 2:03:21 PM
song updated                               

Tuesday, April 24, 2018 2:05:57 PM
stations playing this song              
Desperado Revue
Blurby the Maestro of Blurbs
IndieMusicPeople

 















Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden, 1913 – 1980
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?




Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden, 1913 – 1980
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?

Song Comments

Blurby the Maestro of Blurbs
I've had this feeling many times, the desire to start over and wipe out the past. The artist pulls off a raw purity that makes this a pretty unique offering.


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