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