Rudyard Kipling - Doctors lyrics

Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned. His days are counted and reprieve is vain: Who shall entreat with d**h to stay his hand; Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain? Send here the bold, the seekers of the way-- The pa**ionless, the unshakeable of soul, Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay, And ask no more than leave to make them whole.