Lope de Vega
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.
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Comments about this poem (Tomorrow by Lope de Vega )
- On The T.V., Hannah Bryson Price
- Why do need wisdom anytime?, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- it is almost poetry, Mandolyn ...
- Wisdom's great aim, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Our world is without any kind of wisdom, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Dream packed drama, hasmukh amathalal
- A fool واحد احمق, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Quite same, hasmukh amathalal
- Lack of wisdom, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Wisdom, MOHAMMAD SKATI
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