The night was throbbing with rapture,
Its pulses ran full with fire,
And the sea for the moon above her
Sobbed her desire;
The pulse in your hand was stronger
Than the pulse of the yearning sea—
But the heart of my heart kept beating,
“It must not be.”
The roses trembled with perfume
That thrilled us with sweet unrest,
And a storm of passionate longing
Ached in my breast;
A dove for some dear lost passion
Mourned tenderly on the hill—
But the heart of my heart kept beating,
“Hush! hush! Be still!”
Each heard in the speech of the other
The throb of a troubled heart,
For we knew that the hour was coming
When we must part;
The soul in your eyes was drawing
My soul, as the moon draws the sea—
But the heart of my heart kept beating,
“It must not be.”
O Love, the years have been lonely,
And empty of all delight,
Since we two parted forever
That moonlit night!
But still when my soul is aching
For the eyes and the lips of thee—
The heart of my heart keeps beating,
“It must not be.”
“It Must Not Be” printed in Woman’s Home Companion October 1900. Clipping courtesy of the Ella Higginson Papers, Center for Pacific Northwest Studies, Heritage Resources, Western Washington University, Bellingham Washington.
“It Must Not Be” printed in The Lynn Review (Massachusetts) November 1900.