If you sit down at the set of sun

And count the act you have done,

And, counting, find

One self-denying deed, one word

That eased the heat of him who heard —

One glance most kind,

That fell like sunshine where it went —

Then you may count that 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 drought the sunshine to one face —

No act most small

That helped some soul and nothing cost —

Then count that day as worse than lost.