Tomorrow

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care
    Thou did'st seek after me, that Thou did'st wait
    Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet
    Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost
    If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet.

How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
    “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
    How He persists to knock and wait for thee!”
    And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow,
“Tomorrow we will open,” I replied,
    And when the morrow came I answered still “Tomorrow.”

                —H. W. Longfellow (translator).

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.