If you sit down at the set of sun. And count the acts that you have done.
And, counting, find one self-denying deed, one word. That eased the heart of him who heard,.
One glance most kind. That fell like sunshine where it went.
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day. You’ve cheered not hear, 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.
Source: A poem by George Eliot