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The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. The
trees were dark in color, and mournful in form and attitude, wreathing
themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes that conveyed ideas of
mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep tint of the
cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and
thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow,
and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were not; although
over and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade
of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself
therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied
that each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself
sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by
the stream; while other shadows issued momently from the trees, taking
the place of their predecessors thus entombed.
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I
lost myself forthwith in revery. "If ever island were enchanted," said
I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by
little, their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
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