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 heartache

At the 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 heart-some 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.

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

That gives you a bit of heartache

At the setting of the sun.