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 />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 />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-morrow-from-the-spanish-of-lope-de-vega/
