Ah, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homers age
Bred to be a heros 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.
