OCR Text |
Show Sins of Omission. It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's tho thing you leave undone, un-done, That gives you a bit of headache At the setting of the sun. The tender word forgotten, Tho letter you did not write, The flower 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 hearteomc 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. These little acts of kindness So easily out of mind, These chances to be angels Which we poor mortals find; They come in night awl silence, Eafb sad reproachful wrath, 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 tardies until too late; And it isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, un-done, Which gives you a bit of headache, head-ache, At the satting of the sun. -M. E. Ftrjskr |