In a Volume of Austin Dobson

The faded perfume of forgotten years.
The scent of withered rose-leaves sweetly faint,
Old-world imaginations, fancies quaint,
And fun just dancing on the edge of tears;

A boy's delight, a little maiden's fears,
A heroine of the days of patch and paint.
The gentle visions of an old French saint,
The treachery that repels not but endears.