Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.” Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.” Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”
On This Page: Summary · Background · Analysis and Themes · Form and Technique · Notable Lines · Glossary · In Popular Culture · Related Poems
Summary
Two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, live together near a glen where goblin merchants cry their fruit each evening, “Come buy, come buy.” Warned not to look, the curious Laura lingers, and — having no money — pays for the fruit with a lock of her golden hair, devouring it greedily. Afterwards, she craves more, but can no longer hear the goblins’ call; she sickens and begins to waste away, like a girl named Jeanie who tasted the fruit and died.
To save her, the steadfast Lizzie goes to the goblins with a coin. When she refuses to eat, they attack her and smear her with juice; she runs home and offers herself to Laura — “Eat me, drink me, love me” — so that Laura can taste the fruit a second time, this time as a cure. After a violent crisis, Laura recovers. Years later, both grown into wives and mothers, Laura tells the story to their children, ending with the poem’s moral: “there is no friend like a sister.”
Background
Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) was one of the major poets of the Victorian age and the sister of the Pre-Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. She composed “Goblin Market” in 1859 and published it in 1862 as the title poem of Goblin Market and Other Poems, her first commercially published collection and the book that made her reputation. Her brother Dante Gabriel provided the original illustrations, including the famous frontispiece of the two golden-haired sisters.
One biographical fact hovers over the poem. From 1859, Rossetti volunteered — as “Sister Christina,” in a habit-like uniform — at the St Mary Magdalene House of Charity in Highgate, a refuge that, unusually for the period, believed “fallen women” (former prostitutes) could be redeemed rather than simply ruined. Many critics read “Goblin Market” in light of that work: a tale of a woman who tastes forbidden pleasure, falls, and is saved — not killed, as the Victorian fallen woman almost always was, but restored, and restored by another woman. Rossetti herself was slippery about the poem’s meaning: she publicly called it a children’s fairy tale, yet privately told her publisher it was not meant for children. That doubleness has never been resolved, and it is part of why the poem has been read, simultaneously, as a Christian allegory, an erotic reverie, and a proto-feminist parable.
Analysis and Themes
On its surface, “Goblin Market” is a tidy cautionary fairy tale: don’t take fruit from strangers, don’t give in to temptation, and a good girl will save you. But almost nothing about the poem actually behaves that way. Its real life is in everything that overflows the moral frame — its hunger for the very pleasure it condemns, the strange logic of its cure, and the frankly sensual, sacred act at its climax.
A Cautionary Tale That Loves Its Sin
The plot warns against appetite: Laura’s greed for the goblin fruit nearly kills her, and the dead girl Jeanie stands as proof of where such craving leads. Yet the poem’s language is plainly intoxicated by the thing it warns against. The fruit catalogue spills out in a delicious, breathless rush; the description of Laura feeding — “She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more” — is far more ecstatic than cautionary. The verse savours every forbidden bite. This tension is the poem’s strange engine: it is a moral tale whose sympathies lie with desire, condemning the fruit with its plot while relishing it with its every sound. Rossetti will not let the reader simply disapprove; she makes the temptation as gorgeous as it is dangerous.
The Cure Is the Poison
Here the poem quietly breaks the fairy-tale rules. Laura is not saved by repenting, by learning self-denial, or by never touching the fruit again. She is saved by tasting it a second time — the very same goblin juice that poisoned her, now licked from her sister’s skin. The poison becomes, in Rossetti’s phrase, the “fiery antidote.” This is a far stranger and richer idea than “temptation is bad.” What heals Laura is not the avoidance of the dangerous thing but its transformation — the same fruit, received in a wholly different spirit, through an act of love rather than greed. The cure lies inside the wound. For a devout poet steeped in Christian paradox, the logic is recognizable: salvation works not by undoing the fall but by passing through it.
Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me
Everything converges on Lizzie’s return. Battered and dripping with the juice she would not swallow, she runs to Laura and cries, “Eat me, drink me, love me.” The line works on two levels at once, and the poem refuses to choose between them.
It is unmistakably eucharistic: Lizzie has gone into peril, suffered a kind of passion, and now offers her own body and the red “blood” of the fruit so that the fallen may be redeemed — a clear echo of Christ’s “take, eat” and the sacrament of Communion, with Lizzie standing “like a lily in a flood” as a female Christ. And it is just as unmistakably erotic: the sisters who slept “cheek to cheek and breast to breast,” the urging to “Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices,” the whole charged physical intimacy that generations of readers have found frankly sensual, even homoerotic.
Rossetti fuses the sacred and the sexual instead of separating them. And note who does the saving: not God descending, not a husband or a knight, but a sister. The redemptive power of the poem is female solidarity — “there is no friend like a sister” — which is exactly why, a century later, feminist critics could claim a poem once read as a children’s morality tale as a parable of women rescuing one another.
Form and Technique
“Goblin Market” is a narrative poem of 567 lines written in a deliberately irregular form. The lines vary wildly in length, the meter is loose and accentual (roughly tracking the stresses of speech rather than a fixed count), and the rhyme is constant but follows no set scheme — rhymes arrive when they will, sometimes in quick couplets, sometimes after long delays. The effect is closer to a chant, a nursery rhyme, or a spell than to stately Victorian verse, and it gives the poem its restless, galloping pace and its incantatory pull.
The technique is relentlessly sensory. The famous fruit catalogues pile up taste, colour, and texture until the reader is nearly as overwhelmed as Laura; insistent repetition (“Come buy, come buy”; “suck’d and suck’d and suck’d”) works like the goblins’ own hypnotic sales pitch. Rossetti leans hard on simile to lift key moments out of the action, especially around Lizzie’s ordeal, where a cascade of images — a lily in a flood, a beacon in a roaring sea, a beleaguered town — turns her resistance into something monumental and almost saintly. The goblins themselves are built from animal grotesquerie (cat-faced, rat-paced, snail-paced, wombat- and ratel-like), a queasy mix of the comic and the menacing that keeps the whole poem hovering between fairy tale and nightmare.
Notable Lines
Three lines mark the poem’s moral frame, its charged climax, and its closing lesson.
We must not look at goblin men,
Lizzie’s warning
We must not buy their fruits:
The cautionary frame, stated early by the careful sister. The doubled “We must not” sets up the rule the poem will spend its length complicating — and the irony that Lizzie, who says it, is the one who will finally have to do with the goblins to save Laura.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Lizzie, on her return
Laura, make much of me;
The heart of the poem and the source of its endless interpretation. The words are at once the language of the Eucharist — the body and blood offered for another’s salvation — and unmistakably the language of physical love, sacred and erotic refusing to come apart.
For there is no friend like a sister
Closing lines
In calm or stormy weather;
The stated moral — and the key to the poem’s feminist afterlife. What redeems the fallen here is not divine grace from above or a man’s rescue but the steadfast love of another woman; the bond between sisters is the poem’s true saving power.
Glossary
A few of the poem’s old words and oddities:
- bullaces, greengages, damsons (fruit catalogue) — old English names for varieties of wild and cultivated plum, part of the goblins’ tumbling inventory of fruit.
- furze (Laura’s reply) — gorse, a spiny yellow-flowered shrub; Laura jokes that her only “gold” is the gorse blossom on the heath.
- ratel (the goblins) — a honey badger; one of the beast-shaped goblin merchants, alongside the cat-, rat-, snail-, and wombat-like ones.
- beck — a brook or small stream (“Like a lily from the beck”).
- flags — irises, the water-plants Lizzie gathers at the brookside.
- wormwood — a notoriously bitter herb; the goblin juice turns to wormwood on Laura’s tongue as the cure takes hold.
- succous — juicy, full of sap (“such succous pasture”).
In Popular Culture
The poem has had a long and shape-shifting afterlife.
A magnet for illustrators: From the start, the poem’s vivid strangeness drew artists. Rossetti’s own brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, illustrated the first 1862 edition, and the celebrated Arthur Rackham produced a famous suite of eerie colour plates in 1933 — one of many illustrated editions that have made “Goblin Market” among the most pictured of English poems.
From nursery tale to feminist touchstone: Received in its own day as a moral fairy tale (one Victorian reviewer called it “a true children’s poem”), the poem was dramatically reclaimed in the late twentieth century — notably by Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar’s landmark feminist study The Madwoman in the Attic (1979) — as a parable of female solidarity, and its haunted “goblin market” has echoed through later fantasy writing ever since.
Related Poems
If this poem draws you in, these three make rewarding companions.
- The Eve of St. Agnes by John Keats: A lush Romantic narrative of forbidden desire and midnight escape, heaped with the same kind of dreamlike feast imagery — a clear influence on Rossetti’s sensuous, fruit-laden verse.
- Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge: An eerie, unfinished gothic poem of two women, innocence, and supernatural seduction, long read for its charged female intimacy — an atmospheric ancestor of the goblin glen.
- A Birthday by Christina Rossetti: The same poet in a wholly different key — an ecstatic, sensuous outpouring of joy that shows the lush, sensory voice that also conjured the goblins’ fruit.