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 dearAs 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 beWrongly called Fidelity.

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