It isn't the things we do, dears,
It's the things we leave undone.
That give us the bit of heart ache
At the setting of the sun.
The medicine forgotten,
The record we did not write
The pain we might have relieved, dears,
Are our haunting ghosts to-night.
The brow we might have soothed.
Just in a kindly way.
The bit of cheery counsel
We were hurried too much to say.
The loving touch of the hand, dears.
The gentle and patient tone
That we had no time nor thought for —
With troubles enough of our own.
The thought we might have taken'
The tactful way to be kind.
These chances to be angels,
Which even nurses find.
They come in the day and night time.
Bringing joy and a happy smile
Where hope is faint and flagging,
And the heart is sad for a while.
For life is all too short, dears,
And our work is all to great
For sympathy to linger
And tarry until too late.
For it's not the things we do, dears
It's the things we leave undone
That give us a bit of heart ache
At the setting of the sun.
by
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