That color that Macbeth washed not away.
Fear came between our kisses then. “Nay! nay!—
The world, how can it know our love has been?”
The moon—look!—tells it now to stars that lean
In eagerness; and they to winds that sway
The talking trees. Ah! when I leave you, Dear,
What horrors in the dawn upon me’ll seize
At many fingered mockery of leaves
A-point at me! The world will see—will hear—
The merciless white Day no one deceives,