Collected Poems, by William Butler Yeats

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.