| 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. |