The Sins Of Omission

It isn’t the things we do, my love,

It’s the things that are left undone,

That give us most of our heartache,

At the setting of the Sun.


The tender words forgotten;

The letters we didn’t write;

The flowers we did not send

Are our haunting ghosts at night.


The stones we could have lifted

Out of another’s way;

That bit of heart-felt counsel

We didn’t take time to say.


The loving touch of a hand,

The warm and gentle tone,

We neither had time nor thought for,

With troubles enough of our own.


Those little acts of kindness,

That so easily slip from one’s mind;

The chances to act like an Angel,

That we poor mortals find.


They come in night and silence,

Those sad, reproachful wraiths,

When hope is faint and flagging,

And a chill has fallen on faith.


This life is all too short, my love,

And Earth’s sorrows are too great,

To put up with a slow compassion

That tarries, until it’s too late.


That’s why isn’t the thing we do, my love,

But the ones we leave undone

That give us most of the heartache,

At the setting of the Sun.


Anon.