It's not what you do,
but what You've left undone,
That gives you a touch of heartbreak,
through the wimpy starry night.
The tender words forgotten
The letters you failed to write
stones you might have raised,
Out of a brother's way
The little bit of council neglected,
in your hasteAn helpful hand you own
but can't afford to share
These little acts of kindness
So simply out of love,
These opportunities to be angels,
Which we all tend to find
They come in slow and silent
When hope is faint and tired,
And fate comes without warning, to
serve it's bitter wine.Now life is only too short, friend,
And sorrow is all too nice,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries till too late:
And it's not the things you do,
But those You've left undone,
Which gives you a touch of grief,
At the setting of the sun.