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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
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