Write the summary of the following poem of 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. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I'd 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?