It isn't the thing you do, dear, <br />It's the thing you leave undone <br />That gives you a bit of a heartache <br />At setting of the sun. <br />The tender work forgotten, <br />The letter you did not write, <br />The flowers you did not send, dear, <br />Are your haunting ghosts at night. <br /> <br />The stone you might have lifted <br />Out of a brother's way; <br />The bit of heartsome counsel <br />You were hurried too much to say; <br />The loving touch of the hand, dear, <br />The gentle, winning tone <br />Which you had no time nor thought for <br />With troubles enough of your own. <br /> <br />Those little acts of kindness <br />So easily out of mind, <br />Those chances to be angels <br />Which we poor mortals find - <br />They come in night and silence, <br />Each sad, reproachful wraith, <br />When hope is faint and flagging, <br />And a chill has fallen on faith. <br /> <br />For life is all too short, dear, <br />And sorrow is all to great, <br />To suffer our slow compassion <br />That tarries until too late: <br />And it isn't the thing you do, dear, <br />It's the thing you leave undone <br />Which gives you a bit of heartache <br />At the setting of the sun.<br /><br />Margaret Elizabeth Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sin-of-omission-2/
