Explore "The Pot of Basil" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He talked, having a willing listener -- she laughed at him for a chatterbox. He had long fits of silence -- she tried to enter into his dreams. Sometimes he was moody and troubled; and she knew why, and blamed herself for his self-reproach; sometimes, and that most often, they drifted soul to soul on a halcyon tide, and let the world go, and forgot everything but themselves and the rapture of living.
And they met and met; and still were faithful to their platonic compact. It was pretty to mark their idyll; but Nature, while she hung them with flowers, was for ever a little impatient of their content.