Rudyard Kipling

(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936 / Bombay)

Doctors - Poem by Rudyard Kipling

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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Read poems about / on: pain, death, work

Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003

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