By William Butler Yeats

    Ah, that Time could touch a form
    That could show what Homer’s age
    Bred to be a hero’s wage.
    ‘Were not all her life but storm,
    Would not painters paint a form
    Of 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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