The Fairy Green — Background and Themes

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In Category - Fantasy Juvenile Worlds

Authors: Fyleman, Rose, 1877-1957 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2019 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Children's poetry, English Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 7,755

Reading time 34 min

Text sections 2

This digital edition of The Fairy Green — Background and Themes is described by source-level measurements including 7,755 words, 34 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 27.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Children's poetry, English,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #59726

Rose Fyleman's 1919 collection of children's poems moves between fairy encounters and everyday scenes, using recurring images of light, movement, and domestic spaces to create a cohesive imaginative world.

Editorial Edition Score 4.3/5

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Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
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Edition quality

File: pg59726

Read the Text

You said a thing that seemed unkind To the dear little fairy folk. I'm sure they're simply everywhere, So _promise_ me that you'll take care.

All about the daphne bush the happy fairies went, And spread abroad their silken hair to catch its magic scent; They chanted little silver tunes, they danced the whole day long; The rosy bush was ringed around with chains of coloured song.

They danced, they sang, they flung about their tiny fairy names, Till swiftly over all the sky there ran the sunset flames; Then high into the glowing air they leapt with joyful shout, And with the ruddy shreds of mist they wrapped themselves about.

Into my quiet garden close they swiftly dropped again (The music of their merriment tinkled like falling rain); Laughing they swayed, while from their hair they shook the warm perfume, Till all the place seemed filled with clouds of drifting daphne bloom.

Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.

Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys. I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.

Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask: A pocketful of berries to thread in glowing strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands) So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.

When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, Very softly chiming in, magically clear, Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes Of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats.

When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers, Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din-- Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.

When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals And in wild November nights, on the winds astride, Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.

Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, Every lovely fragile hope--these the fairies take, Delicately fashion them and give them back again In tender, limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.

Over the field the fairies went Singing and dancing and well content; Over the field of sweet warm grass I saw their shimmering cohorts pass.

The clover flamed to a ruddier glow, The slender buttercups curtseyed low, The wondering daisies, innocent-eyed, Bowed their heads to the radiant tide.

And flirting butterflies, pearly white, Left the flowers for a new delight, Left their loves for the fairies' sake, And fluttered dizzily in their wake.

Over the swaying grass they swept, Over the hedgerow soared and leapt, Broke and scattered in golden spray, Gleamed and glittered--and melted away.

I know an island in a lake, Green upon waters grey; It has a strange enchanted air; I hear the fairies singing there When I go by that way.

They guard their hidden dwelling-place With bands of stalwart reeds, But sometimes, by a happy chance, I see them all come out and dance Upon the water-weeds.

One night, one summer night, I know Suddenly I shall wake, And very softly hasten down And out beyond the sleeping town To find my fairy lake.

I shall not need to seek a boat, It will be moored, I think, Within a tiny pebbled bay Where meadow-sweet and mallow sway Close to the water's brink.

The moon from shore to shadowy shore Will make a shining trail, And I shall sing their fairy song As joyfully I float along-- I shall not need a sail.

And peering through a starlit haze I presently shall see, Where swift the waiting reeds unclose, The fairies all in rows and rows Waiting to welcome me.

SMITH SQUARE, WESTMINSTER

In Smith Square, Westminster, the houses stand so prim, With slender railings at their feet and windows straight and slim; And all day long they staidly stare with gentle placid gaze, And dream of joyous happenings in splendid bygone days.

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Rose Fyleman's The Fairy Green (1919) opens with a child's breathless report of seeing the fairy queen beneath an apple tree, a vision rendered in short, urgent lines: "I've seen her, I've seen her— / I simply ran and ran." This pattern of sudden, fleeting glimpses recurs throughout the collection, which alternates between fairy-haunted landscapes and the solid objects of a child's daily life—a butcher's shop, a pillar-box, a dentist's chair. The poems move between these realms without warning, as if the boundary between them is permeable.

Movement and Stillness

Across the excerpts, Fyleman repeatedly contrasts motion with stillness. In "Vision," the child runs to fetch a grown-up, then freezes in the orchard. In "The Fairy Green," the speaker stands motionless, eyes shut, while fairies dance around: "I never moved, I never spoke / (Oh, but my heart beat fast)." The fairy queen in the opening poem sits on a circling dragonfly but does not hold on—a poised, effortless suspension. These moments of held breath create tension, as if the speaker is trying not to startle the magic away. Even in domestic poems like "My Policeman," the child stands still while the policeman directs traffic, and the errand boys "make no noise" as they pass. The collection's structure thus hinges on a rhythm of approach and retreat, sound and silence.

Light and Color as Thresholds

Fyleman uses light and color to mark transitions between ordinary and enchanted spaces. In "The Daphne Bush," fairies dance until "over all the sky there ran the sunset flames," then wrap themselves in "ruddy shreds of mist." The fairy queen appears "with stars and dewdrops in her hair," and her wings are "very blue." The peacock in "The Visit" is "blue and gold and green." By contrast, the butcher wears a "coat of blue" and a "linen apron," the pillar-box is "fat and red," and the policeman's buttons "silver"—bright but fixed colors. The fairy world is associated with shifting, iridescent hues, while the human world uses solid, primary colors. This chromatic code helps readers sense when a poem is crossing into the other realm, even before the fairies appear.

Domestic Objects as Anchors

Several poems ground the fantasy in specific, tactile domestic objects. "The Porridge Plate" describes a plate "white and misty blue" that reveals a castle scene as the porridge is eaten—a miniature landscape embedded in a mealtime ritual. "The Dentist" imagines a child's fantasy of owning the dentist's equipment: "bottles all arranged in coloured rows" and a "velvet chair." The pillar-box becomes a creature with a "Tammy on its head." These poems treat ordinary things as portals or companions, much like the fairy encounters. The child in "The Porridge Plate" doesn't care for porridge "in an ordinary way" but likes it at Grannie's because of the picture—a parallel to how the fairy poems make the everyday world strange and desirable.

The Child's Voice and Address

Fyleman's poems are consistently spoken by a child who addresses an adult listener directly. In "Please," the child warns: "Please be careful where you tread, / The fairies are about." In "Vision," the child interrupts a grown-up's sewing: "Put down your sewing quickly, please, / Let's hurry to the orchard trees." The adult is often absent or unresponsive—the fairy queen vanishes, the policeman smiles but doesn't speak, the butcher nods and says "Good-day." This asymmetry gives the child's voice authority: the child sees what adults miss. The poems thus function as a kind of testimony, insisting on the reality of the invisible. The final poem, "To the Fairies," closes the collection with a direct address to the fairies themselves, completing the circuit of communication.

Readers may find it useful to notice how Fyleman builds her fairy world from the same materials as the child's everyday one—a plate, a street corner, a dentist's chair. The poems reward attention to recurring motifs: the color blue, the act of hiding one's face, the sound of running feet. Because the excerpts are incomplete, the full arc of the collection remains uncertain, but the pattern of movement between enchantment and domesticity is consistent throughout the available text.

There’s a particular hush in those Fyleman poems, that flicker of light across a kitchen floor, that I still half-look for. It made me think of the quiet care in the old doll illustrations, where a turned head or folded dress holds the same gentle attention. More dollies — Edition Insights feels like finding that same warm corner again, a small, patient world.