Rudyard Kipling

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.