Doctors

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 unshakable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay,
And ask no more than leave to make them whole.