The Sin of Omission

By Margaret E. Sangster

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the things you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At the 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.

For life is all too short, dear
And sorrow is all too great
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarried until too late.
And it isn't the thing that you do, dear
It's the things you leave undone
Which gives a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.