It isn't the thing you do, dear,
it's the thing you left undone
That gives you the bitter heartache
at the setting sun;
the tender word unspoken,
the letter you did not write,
the flower you might have sent, dear,
are your haunting ghosts at night.
The stone you might have lifted
out of your brother's way,
the bit of heartfelt 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 or thought for
with troubles enough of your own.
These little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind;
These chances to be angels
Which even mortals find;
They come in nights of silence
to take away the grief
when hope is faint and feeble
and a drought has stopped belief.
For life is all too short, dear,
and sorrow is all too great
to allow our slow compassion
that tarries until too late.
And it's not the thing you do, dear,
it's the thing you leave undone
that gives you the bitter heartache
at the setting of the sun.
by Adelaide Proctor.
haii. saya maryam. folo la saya. keh3