Explore "The Pot of Basil" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"It is only for one hurried moment. I dare not stop. O, my heart beats so! "
He held her hands; he gazed as if he could never fill the hunger of his soul; for a minute he failed to speak. In all his passionate dreams he had never pictured her as returning to him like this -- black clad -- like an angel of death. The contrast between her lily complexion and the deep sadness of her robe was even startling. In his first glowing stupefaction, an odd thought hung like a mote in his mind -- like a travelling speck under closed lids. It was a perplexed association of this mourning with something he had just been thinking about. With something -- with what? Dead men and green things that blossomed! What was it? He expanded his chest over the idleness of the fancy, easing it away in a great rapturous sigh. And then it came to him. The dead mother! And he had been thinking only of dead love.