The Sin Of Omission

by Margaret Sangster

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.

The tender word forgotten,

The letter you did not write,

The flower you might have sent, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts to-night.

The stone you might have lifted

Out of brother's way,

The bit of heartsome counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle and winsome tone,

That you had no time nor thought for,

With troubles enough of your own.

The little acts of kindness,

So easily out of mind;

Those chances to be angels

Which every one may find

They come in night and silence

Each chill, reproachful wraith

When hope is faint and flagging

And a blight has dropped on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,

And sorrow is all too great;

To suffer our great compassion

That tarries until too late;

And it's not the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,

Which gives you the bit of heartache

At the setting of the sun.