If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, on word
That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind
That fell like shushing where it went—
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay—
If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face—
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost—
Then count that day as worse than lost.