Count that Day
If you sit down at set of sun and count the acts that you have done
And, counting, find one self-denying deed, one word,
That eased the heart of him who heard;
One glance most kind, that felt like sunshine where it went,
Then, you may count that day well spent.
-- George Eliot
It isn't the thing you do, dear, it's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache at the setting of the sun.
The tender work forgotten, the letter you did not write,
The flowers you did not send, dear, are your haunting ghosts at night.

The rock you might have lifted out of a brother's way;
The bit of heartsome 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.

Those little acts of kindness, so easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels that we mortals sometimes find.
They come in night and silence, each sad, reproachful wraith,
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
Which gives you a bit of heartache at the setting of the sun.

-- Margaret E. Sangster
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