It isn’t the things you do,
it’s the things you leave undone,
which give you a little heartache
at the setting of the sun.
The gentle word forgotten,
the letter you didn’t write;
the flowers you might have sent,
are your haunting ghosts tonight.
The stone you might have lifted
out of your brother’s way;
the little heartfelt counsel
you were hurried too much to say.
The tender touch of the hand,
the gentle and kindly tone;
which we have no time or thought for,
with troubles enough of our own.

(Anon)