What Might Have Been

It's not the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone

That gives you a bit of 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.

The stone you might have lifted

Out of the brother's way;

The bit of heartsome counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

And the gentle winning 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,

Those chances to be angels

Which we poor mortals find-

They come in nighttime silence,

Each sad, reproachable 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 tarries until too late.

And it isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone

That gives you a bit of heartache

At the setting of the sun.

Written by Homer A. Rodeheaver