The Sin of Omission

by Margaret E. Sangster

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 hand, dear,

  The gentle, winning tone

Which you had no time nor thought for

  With troubles enough of our 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 too 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 a bit of a heartache

  At the setting of the sun.