“She wrapped it up; and for its tomb did choose a garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.” In these lines from “Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil,” a poem published in 1820, John Keats portrays a grieving woman who buries the severed head of her murdered lover, Lorenzo, in a pot, covers it with soil, and plants basil on top. Faithful to his memory, she steadfastly cares for the herb. Nourished by her tears and the decomposing flesh, it ultimately blooms “thick and green and beautiful.” The image of basil, a member of the aromatic mint family, in Keats’s poem is a jarring one. The herb’s association with the primal emotions of life, love, and death is an unfamiliar one today. But it is a connection deeply embedded in the traditions and folkways of cultures both East and West. “Basil … was not always the innocent, delightful kitchen pot-herb that we know,” anthropologist and food historian Margaret Visser observes.

In India, an ancient home of the plant, holy basil, one important species, is planted in temple courtyards. Pots of the leafy bush are planted prominently on pedestals in the homes and gardens of devout Hindus. Believers wear rosaries or garlands with beads made from its stems and roots.

Women have been traditionally assigned the job of tending the plant, the reincarnation of the goddess, Tulsi, the wife of Vishnu, the world’s creator. Praying and chanting mantras during the evening, they honor tulsi (the plant has the same name as the goddess). Holy basil, the “Destroyer of Demons,” is believed to ward off forces of evil and to purify the air. It scares off dangerous insects and eradicates colds and fevers.

The protector of marriage also strengthens fidelity and promotes fertility. Moreover Tulsi is guardian of both the living and the dead, who are washed with basil water to assure their path to heaven. So venerated was the plant that it became a touchstone of legal proceedings. The British colonial authorities in India required that oaths be taken in the presence of holy basil. Holding leaves in their hands, they were sworn in. The oath takers would then chew and swallow the basil.

Probably because of its sacred status, the tangy herb is only infrequently used in Indian cooking. The one exception is an invigorating tea infused with basil, honey, and shredded ginger. Treated with awe and respect on the Indian Subcontinent, basil is eaten with zest in Thailand in stir fries and curries. These playful Buddhists, lovers of coriander, lemon grass, and other aromatic flavorings, relish it as one more saucy herb in their repertoire. In a celebrated “ka prow” dish, holy basil leaves are strewn over chunks of stir fried chicken. Its anise accent blends with the sharp taste of garlic as well as the soy and red chilis in the sauce.

When basil reached the West, it arrived with mythic connotations, some of which echoed Eastern beliefs. The plant collectors in Alexander the Great’s army, it is said, carried basil from Central Asia, from Persia, India, or Afghanistan, to Greece. The Greeks named the herb basilikon or royal. (In Persia, it was given the honorific “royal leaf of the king.”) Basil was so esteemed that only the king in Greece and other societies was permitted to cut it and, then, only with a golden scythe, not with iron or some other ignoble metal. Basil’s regal aura remains strong today. The herb is known in France as herbe royale and in Italy as erba royale.

In the Mediterranean world as in India basil was invested with awesome powers. The talismanic herb terrified the “evil eye” and kept mosquitoes and other insects at bay. Basil also had the power to bind as well as to repel. This quality made the plant ideal for the rites of courtship. In Italy a pot of basil placed prominently on the balcony signaled a lady’s willingness to meet suitors. (Hindu women in India demonstrate their availability for marriage by paying homage to tulsi). A man wooing a woman might wear a sprig of basil in his hair. The exchange of basil leaves among lovers was a token of fidelity.

In mourning as well as in romance basil was vital.To Greek Orthodox believers, sprigs of the plant are said to have sprouted in Christ’s grave. Today women carry basil leaves to their churches to be blessed on St. Basil’s day, the first day of the New Year. Returning home, they scatter them on the floor for good luck. Avid users of oregano, dill, and other herbs in their cuisine, the Greeks, like the Indians, regard basil as sacrament rather than seasoning.

Paradoxically, basil’s seductive fragrance carried with it the scent of danger. A scorpion, according to the Roman botanist Pliny, sprung out of the pounded basil placed under a stone. The insect, a symbol of lust, was said to be attracted to plants with a powerful aroma. A magnet for the scorpion, basil could also alleviate its sting.

Like the scorpion, a fearsome serpent of Greek legend was intimately connected to the plant. The snake, as the Roman naturalist Pliny described it, was about twelve inches long with a distinctive white marking on its head.A mere touch of the monster or a gaze from the beast, it was feared, led to death. Basil again came to the rescue. It was an effective antidote to the venom.Tellingly,the name for the snake, basilisk,came from the same Greek root as the word for basil.

One Mediterranean culture, the Italian region of Liguria and its port of Genoa, was able to break the basil spell. The people of the northwest coast reveled in the flavor of the herb, which grew luxuriantly on its hilly slopes. The sailors who embarked from Genoa, food writer Waverly Root observed, returned from their long voyages ravenous for fragrant cooking. Herb rich dishes “offered him when he returned home restored for the old-time sailor the charm of the damp woods, of the verdure of the fields, of the sun on the mountain slopes, of the freshness of river banks.”

Pesto blossomed into the favorite dish of the Italian Riviera. The basil-laden sauce, anthropologist Margaret Visser says, resembles a paste conceived in ancient Rome. Moretum was made by pounding herbs like parsley and wild celery together with salt, garlic, cheese, and nuts. Olive oil and vinegar were, then, added to the mix. Eaten with bread, which was dipped in the sauce, moretum provided a simple,filling lunch.

Recipes for pesto, a word that come comes from the Genoese pesta, or “to pound or beat,” followed strict tradition. “The making of pesto in Genoa is a rite and must be done with mortar and pestle,” food expert Guliano Bugialli tells his readers. In the mortar basil leaves along with coarse salt and garlic are crushed. “O morta o sa sempre d’aglio”—the mortar always smells of garlic—the Genoese proverb goes. Cheese, traditionally parmesan and Sardinian pecorino, is beaten into the green sauce. Olive oil poured into the ensemble produces a rich and fragrant medium for the pesto. Finally crushed pine nuts, pignoli, impart their flavor to the sauce.

There is nothing bland about basil, either on the dining table or in a religious rite. But as this magical herb becomes more widely merchandised, it is in danger of losing its awesome power. When I eat a chicken pesto sandwich, will I tremble or my senses tingle? Or alas will I just yawn?