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Peace
| 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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By PanEris
using Melati.
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