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.
—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.
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