A Thought in Meditation
Inspired by The Island of the Fay, Edgar Allen Poe.
Curated and translated into English as needed.
Nullus enim locus sine genio est.—Servius ("No place is without spirit.")
There is a pleasure within our reach—the happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the human who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory. Regard the dark valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all. Regard these as the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole—a whole whose form is the most perfect and most inclusive of all—the Universe—Thought God—All Knowledge; whose destinies are found in immensity.
These fancies give a tinge of the fantastic everyday world. Wanderings amid such scenes are often solitary. “La solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu’un pour vous dire que la solitude est une belle chose?” (“Solitude is a beautiful thing; we need someone to tell us that solitude is a beautiful thing?”)
In a far distant region of my mind, I saw a mountain and a little river with an island. The river turned sharply in its course and was immediately lost to further sight. It seemed to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of the forest. There was a marked difference in the ends of the island. One had a radiant glow of garden beauties. It blushed beneath the eyes of slant sunlight and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and lily interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect—bright, slender, graceful, of Eastern figure and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no air blew from out the heavens, every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable butterflies.
The other end of the isle was covered in the darkest shade. A somber, yet beautiful and peaceful quiet pervaded all things. The trees were dark in color, form and attitude. The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung down. Hither and thither among it were many small hillocks, low and narrow. 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 from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream.
This is a place of a gentle Fay (a fairy spirit). She stood erect in my view. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicative of joy. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light. Just like we often do.
10/19/25