First Fairypost this spring

Firstly, I intend to keep these posts shorter from now on. Not that I don’t enjoy writing them, but I assume they’re rather tedious and my initial idea was that I’d post a painting and perhaps a song or a poem and that would be it.

Moving on, it’s Henry Meynell Rheam‘s (1859, Birkenhead, Merseyside thatis,closetoLiverpool!-1920, Penzance, Cornwall) painting that I wanna discuss today. He was a Pre-Raphaelite painter who was associated with the Post-Impressionist Newlyn School. His preferred medium was watercolours and the themes of his paintings were generally romantic in nature and chromatically warm and pleasing, with typically-Pre-Raphaelite portrayals of young women, landscapes, and fairytale-like subjects (he painted works representing Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, the Arthurian Morgana/Morgaine etc.).
This here is his The Fairy Wood, 1903:

A pretty painting which personally reminded me of the chivalrous romance of the Middle Ages, especially due to the knight on horseback which, despite being in the background, immediately catches one’s attention. I’m not sure what the little beings are supposed to be, although their general attire resembles the pre-Tolkien definition of elves or wood-elves, so that might just be it. I have my own interpretation for the rest of the composition, as to why she is dressed in white, why she seems hesitant about following the little elf in the Fairy Woods and what exactly that brave knight is doing; but I couldn’t find any explanations online and for all I know I might be on a very wrong track, so I’ll keep those for myself. One thing that I want to notice, though, is the beautiful robins and the beautiful blue hues. It would have made the image magical without the elves or the princess.

And a very special poem today, I was saving this one for a special opportunity, and seeing as it’s the start of Spring… :); I thought of how the elves seem to be leading the princess into their fantastic world, into a sort of Fairy-Land.


by Edgar Allan Poe

Dim vales–and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down–still down–and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O’er the strange woods–o’er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!–O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like–almost anything-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet, a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.


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Filed under Artlove, Poetrylove, Pseudointellectual

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