By: Margaret E. Sangster

It isn’t .the thing you do, dear, it’s the thing you leave undone
that give 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 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 left undone
which gives you a bit of a headache at the setting of the sun.