By W. B. Yeats

H, that Time could touch a formThat could show what Homer’s ageBred to be a hero’s wage.’Were not all her life but storm,Would not painters paint a formOf such noble lines,’ I said,’Such a delicate high head,All that sternness amid charm,All that sweetness amid strength?’Ah, but peace that comes at length,Came when Time had touched her form. 

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