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.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:02