Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Things Undone

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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. 

Mrs. Dita H. Kinney

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