It Isn’t the Thing You Do, Dear
It isn’t the things you do, dear
It’s the things you leave undone,
That gives you the bitter heartache
At the setting of the 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.
A life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To allow our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And its not the thing you do, dear,
Its the thing you leave undone,
That gives you the bitter heartache,
At the setting sun.
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It was a lovely sentiment wasn’t it, Teresa.
What a sweet reminder of the things we’re often to hurried to notice or do.
Kathy, I also thought the poem did a wonderful job of teaching us to be mindful of the things we often leave undone.