Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care <br /> Thou did'st seek after me, that Thou did'st wait <br /> Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, <br />And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? <br />Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet <br /> Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost <br /> If my ingratitude's unkindly frost <br />Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet. <br /> <br />How oft my guardian angel gently cried, <br /> “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see <br /> How He persists to knock and wait for thee!” <br /> And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow, <br />“Tomorrow we will open,” I replied, <br /> And when the morrow came I answered still “Tomorrow.” <br /> <br /> <br /> —H. W. Longfellow (translator). <br /> <br />From: Hispanic Anthology: Poems Translated from the Spanish by English and North American Poets, collected and arranged by Thomas Walsh. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1920.<br /><br />Lope de Vega<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tomorrow-2/
