Those Winter Sundays

Those Winter Sundays 那些冬季的星期天 ◇ ——By Robert Hayden 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. 星期天我父亲也起得很早， 在蓝黑的寒气中穿上衣服， 然后用平日在风霜里劳作 皴裂而疼痛的手捅开 压住的炉火。没有人感谢过他。 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, 我醒来听到寒气崩开、碎裂。 等房间暖和了，他便叫唤， 我便慢慢的起床，穿衣服， 怕着那栋屋子一贯的怒气， 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? 漠然地跟他说着话， 而他已驱走了寒冷 把我的靓鞋也擦好了。 我何曾懂得，我何曾懂得 严慈的爱与其孤独的责任？