The Sin Of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
    It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
    At the 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 hearthstone 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
Which gives you a bit of a heartache
    At the setting of the sun.