I just came across this interesting little piece.
Sometimes what we refrain from doing leaves a deeper impression.
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
STREPHON kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.