The Sin of Omission

by: Margaret E. Sangster

It isn't the thing you do, dear, 
Its the thing you leave undone 
That gives you a bit of a heartache 
At setting of the sun. 
The tender work 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 enough of your own. 

Thoes little acts of kindness 
So easily out of mind, 
Thoes 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 to 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 heartache 
At the setting of the sun.