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 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 br —H. W. Longfellow (translator). br br 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.