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Poem	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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