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.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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