TOMORROW
by: Lope de Vega (1562-1635)
- ORD, 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."
This English translation by Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow of "Tomorrow" is reprinted from
Hispanic Anthology: Poems Translated from the Spanish by English
and North American Poets. Ed. Thomas Walsh. New York: G.P.
Putnam's Sons, 1920. |
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