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. MORE POEMS BY LOPE DE VEGA