Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned. <br />His days are counted and reprieve is vain: <br />Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand; <br />Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain? <br /> <br />Send here the bold, the seekers of the way-- <br />The passionless, the unshakeable of soul, <br />Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay, <br />And ask no more than leave to make them whole.<br /><br />Rudyard Kipling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/doctors-2/
