Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 172

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CLXXII
O let me be in loving nice,
Dainty, fine, and o'er precise,
That I may charm my charmed dear
As tho' I felt a secret fear
 ​To lose what never can be lost,
Her faith who still delights me most!
So shall I be more than true,
Ever in my ageing new.
So dull habit shall not be
Wrongly called Fidelity.

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