The Sin Of Omission

by Margaret Sangster

It isn't the things we do, dear;
It's the things we leave undone,
Which gives us so much heartache
At the setting of the sun.

The tender word forgotten,
The letter we did not write,
The flowers we might have sent, dear,
Are our haunting ghosts  at night.

The stone we might have lifted
Out of our brother's way,
The bit of heart-some counsel
We were far too busy to say;


The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That we had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of our 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 we do, dear,
It's the thing we leave undone,
Which gives us so much heartache
At the setting of the sun.

 

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