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