Classic Poem

The deed I should have wrought on yesterday
Did grow and grow, till like a weight it lay
Upon me, though I turned and went my way.

But not to safety; for around my bed
All the undone will gather; and like lead
Will on my coffin weigh, when I am dead;—

And nailing me within with deathly stress,
Will keep from me that sun of righteousness,
That cannot enter through, my sleep to bless.