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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow





Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care,
  Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait
  Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
  And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O strange delusion! that I did not greet
  Thy blest approach, and O, 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, O! how often to that voice of sorrow,
  "To-morrow we will open," I replied,
  And when the morrow came I answered still "To-morrow."