Doctors

 1923

Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned.

 His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand;
 Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?

Send here the bold, the seekers of the way--
 The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay,
 And ask no more than leave to make them whole.

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