From the Department of Unpopular Opinions:

This is a beautifully-written tale of not being satisfied with what one has, but always longing for that other. It would have been a perfect short story of perhaps 50 pages. As even a very short novel, it’s just too long.

But the dreamy, emotional setting is the strongest part of the book, and will keep lovers of fantasy and/or nature writing interested. Not much characterization and not much plot, either, except for a few set pieces of exciting action. It’s written in a sort of biblical/ Norse saga style that is initially comforting but becomes a drag after a while.

But do try it. You may love it far more than I did. ( )

It’s cute. It’s not like John Tolkien because there’s no danger, but it’s not unlike an Elder Scrolls game if you stay in the safe parts of town or better, make yourself invisible. It’s not a plot book, and not really a character book either, but a sort of setting book, ironically very un-Jane (‘it is not my intention to tell you about Hertfordshire’), but very feminine. It is a sort of adventure—it’s a princess adventure. It’s not the best or the worst princess adventure I’ve read, but it’s not unlike a painting of a young girl’s face, you know. Of course, you admire it more than you talk about it. But it’s nice.

Dig for the metaphores. Or not. Try to find the action. Or not.

Just read it for the sake of the sheer beauty and the incredible flow of the language. You will be rewarded. ( )

If you’re interested in character development or a fast-moving, action-packed plot, Lord Dunsany’s The King of Elfland’s Daughter will probably disappoint you. On the other hand, if you remain curious about the origins of the fantasy genre beyond Tolkien but were put off by the recurrent battles of Eddison’s Zimiamvian series, then this might be more to your taste.
Yet be forewarned: there is bloodshed here, too. In addition to numerous stags, even unicorns. When I shared this information with a fantasy fan, he gasped, “not unicorns!” But it turns out that the unicorns, because of their stuck-up ways, aren’t beloved of their fellow creatures of Elfland, so the aptly-named Orion has little difficulty recruiting a troll to help hunt them.
Orion is the offspring of an earthling, Alveric, prince of Erl, and Lirazel (to whom the book’s title refers). Alveric enters Elfland, which turns out to be just through the hedge at the edge of Erl, to get her as his bride.
The idea was not his to begin with, though. It arose when Erl’s parliament petitioned Alveric’s father, the king of Erl, to liven up Erl with some magic. Alveric’s consent comes readily enough, nor does Lirazel hesitate to take his hand and scamper earthward through the hedge. That surprised me.
This lack of resistance gave me the feeling in the book’s first part that not much was happening. But, of course, Alveric can’t just stroll through the hedge. To hack through the life-threatening ivy that clads the giant oaks beyond, he needs a sword forged from thunderbolts by a helpful witch.
When Lirazel bears their son, Orion, the same witch is deemed the only suitable nurse.
Orion’s dual heritage gradually reveals itself. At first, Erl’s parliament (twelve village elders who do their planning in the evening while imbibing generous bowls of mead) are pleased their desire has come to fruition but then regret it. So in one way, the story illustrates the old adage, be careful what you wish for. Indeed, Lord Dunsany’s portrayal for this group’s ability to get it wrong suggests that he shares fellow fantasist Eddison’s disdain for democracy. We’re overdue for a creative fantasist to imagine a well-working democracy; I think we could use it now.
The book also illustrates a second adage, the one about the grass always greener and so on. This is the aspect of the book I most enjoyed. It’s no surprise that Elfland exerts a pull on some earthlings. It is lit by neither sun nor moon but bathed in perpetual twilight by the king’s effulgence. He has mastered time so that it moves so slowly that seemingly nothing changes (a point stylistically underlined by the author’s generous repetition of descriptive details as motifs whenever he writes about Elfland). The twist is that earth also fascinates some of Elfland’s creatures. Each day is announced by a glorious dawn and seen off by a radiant sunset. Spring seems to pass in a heartbeat. To Lirazel, as well as to Lurulu, the adventurous troll, earth’s transience is part of its beauty.
Is there a way to satisfy this mutual attraction? In Erl, Lirazel had missed her homeland; but then, after she yields to her father’s magical blandishment to return, she longs for her son (and her husband, too—at least a bit). This adds a mood previously unknown in Elfland: Sadness. The only way for her father to assuage it is to risk Elfland’s future survival. ( )

think I might have read this one years ago. I'll have to check it out and see