It
isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That
gives you a bit of a heartache
At setting of the sun.
The
tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you did
not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night. The
stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way;
The bit of heartsome
counsel
You were hurried too much to say. The
loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no
time nor thought for
With troubles of your own. Those
little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which
we poor mortals find. They
come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint
and flagging,
And a chill has fallen on faith. For
life is all to short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow
compassion
That tarries until too late. And
it isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
Which
gives you all that heartache
At the setting of the sun.
~
By Margaret E. Sangster (1838-1912)
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