![\"Goblin](\"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Valentines-Sale-1.jpg\")
<\/h2>\n<\/h2>\nby Christina Rossetti<\/p>\n
Morning and evening
\nMaids heard the goblins cry:
\n“Come buy our orchard fruits,
\nCome buy, come buy:
\nApples and quinces,
\nLemons and oranges,
\nPlump unpecked cherries,
\nMelons and raspberries,
\nBloom-down-cheeked peaches,
\nSwart-headed mulberries,
\nWild free-born cranberries,
\nCrab-apples, dewberries,
\nPine-apples, blackberries,
\nApricots, strawberries;–
\nAll ripe together
\nIn summer weather,–
\nMorns that pass by,
\nFair eves that fly;
\nCome buy, come buy:
\nOur grapes fresh from the vine,
\nPomegranates full and fine,
\nDates and sharp bullaces,
\nRare pears and greengages,<\/p>\n
Damsons and bilberries,
\nTaste them and try:
\nCurrants and gooseberries,
\nBright-fire-like barberries,
\nFigs to fill your mouth,
\nCitrons from the South,
\nSweet to tongue and sound to eye;
\nCome buy, come buy.”<\/p>\n
Evening by evening
\nAmong the brookside rushes,
\nLaura bowed her head to hear,
\nLizzie veiled her blushes:
\nCrouching close together
\nIn the cooling weather,
\nWith clasping arms and cautioning lips,
\nWith tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
\n“Lie close,” Laura said,
\nPricking up her golden head:
\n“We must not look at goblin men,
\nWe must not buy their fruits:
\nWho knows upon what soil they fed
\nTheir hungry thirsty roots?”
\n“Come buy,” call the goblins
\nHobbling down the glen.
\n“O,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
\nYou should not peep at goblin men.”
\nLizzie covered up her eyes,
\nCovered close lest they should look;
\nLaura reared her glossy head,<\/p>\n
And whispered like the restless brook:
\n“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
\nDown the glen tramp little men.
\nOne hauls a basket,
\nOne bears a plate,
\nOne lugs a golden dish
\nOf many pounds’ weight.
\nHow fair the vine must grow
\nWhose grapes are so luscious;
\nHow warm the wind must blow
\nThrough those fruit bushes.”
\n“No,” said Lizzie, “no, no, no;
\nTheir offers should not charm us,
\nTheir evil gifts would harm us.”
\nShe thrust a dimpled finger
\nIn each ear, shut eyes and ran:
\nCurious Laura chose to linger
\nWondering at each merchant man.
\nOne had a cat’s face,
\nOne whisked a tail,
\nOne tramped at a rat’s pace,
\nOne crawled like a snail,
\nOne like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
\nOne like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
\nShe heard a voice like voice of doves
\nCooing all together:
\nThey sounded kind and full of loves
\nIn the pleasant weather.<\/p>\n
Laura stretched her gleaming neck<\/p>\n
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
\nLike a lily from the beck,
\nLike a moonlit poplar branch,
\nLike a vessel at the launch
\nWhen its last restraint is gone.<\/p>\n
Backwards up the mossy glen
\nTurned and trooped the goblin men,
\nWith their shrill repeated cry,
\n“Come buy, come buy.”
\nWhen they reached where Laura was
\nThey stood stock still upon the moss,
\nLeering at each other,
\nBrother with queer brother;
\nSignalling each other,
\nBrother with sly brother.
\nOne set his basket down,
\nOne reared his plate;
\nOne began to weave a crown
\nOf tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
\n(Men sell not such in any town);
\nOne heaved the golden weight
\nOf dish and fruit to offer her:
\n“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
\nLaura stared but did not stir,
\nLonged but had no money:
\nThe whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
\nIn tones as smooth as honey,
\nThe cat-faced purr’d,
\nThe rat-paced spoke a word<\/p>\n
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
\nOne parrot-voiced and jolly
\nCried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly”;–
\nOne whistled like a bird.<\/p>\n
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
\n“Good folk, I have no coin;
\nTo take were to purloin:
\nI have no copper in my purse,
\nI have no silver either,
\nAnd all my gold is on the furze
\nThat shakes in windy weather
\nAbove the rusty heather.”
\n“You have much gold upon your head,”
\nThey answered altogether:
\n“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
\nShe clipped a precious golden lock,
\nShe dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
\nThen sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
\nSweeter than honey from the rock,
\nStronger than man-rejoicing wine,
\nClearer than water flowed that juice;
\nShe never tasted such before,
\nHow should it cloy with length of use?
\nShe sucked and sucked and sucked the more
\nFruits which that unknown orchard bore;
\nShe sucked until her lips were sore;
\nThen flung the emptied rinds away,
\nBut gathered up one kernel stone,
\nAnd knew not was it night or day
\nAs she turned home alone.<\/p>\n
Lizzie met her at the gate
\nFull of wise upbraidings:
\n“Dear, you should not stay so late,
\nTwilight is not good for maidens;
\nShould not loiter in the glen
\nIn the haunts of goblin men.
\nDo you not remember Jeanie,
\nHow she met them in the moonlight,
\nTook their gifts both choice and many,
\nAte their fruits and wore their flowers
\nPlucked from bowers
\nWhere summer ripens at all hours?
\nBut ever in the noonlight
\nShe pined and pined away;
\nSought them by night and day,
\nFound them no more, but dwindled and grew gray,
\nThen fell with the first snow,
\nWhile to this day no grass will grow
\nWhere she lies low:
\nI planted daisies there a year ago
\nThat never blow.
\nYou should not loiter so.”
\n“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
\n“Nay, hush, my sister:
\nI ate and ate my fill,
\nYet my mouth waters still;
\nTo-morrow night I will
\nBuy more,”–and kissed her.
\n“Have done with sorrow;
\nI’ll bring you plums to-morrow<\/p>\n
Fresh on their mother twigs,
\nCherries worth getting;
\nYou cannot think what figs
\nMy teeth have met in,
\nWhat melons icy-cold
\nPiled on a dish of gold
\nToo huge for me to hold,
\nWhat peaches with a velvet nap,
\nPellucid grapes without one seed:
\nOdorous indeed must be the mead
\nWhereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
\nWith lilies at the brink,
\nAnd sugar-sweet their sap.”<\/p>\n
Golden head by golden head,
\nLike two pigeons in one nest
\nFolded in each other’s wings,
\nThey lay down in their curtained bed:
\nLike two blossoms on one stem,
\nLike two flakes of new-fallen snow,
\nLike two wands of ivory
\nTipped with gold for awful kings.
\nMoon and stars gazed in at them,
\nWind sang to them lullaby,
\nLumbering owls forbore to fly,
\nNot a bat flapped to and fro
\nRound their rest:
\nCheek to cheek and breast to breast
\nLocked together in one nest.<\/p>\n
Early in the morning
\nWhen the first cock crowed his warning,
\nNeat like bees, as sweet and busy,
\nLaura rose with Lizzie:
\nFetched in honey, milked the cows,
\nAired and set to rights the house,
\nKneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
\nCakes for dainty mouths to eat,
\nNext churned butter, whipped up cream,
\nFed their poultry, sat and sewed;
\nTalked as modest maidens should:
\nLizzie with an open heart,
\nLaura in an absent dream,
\nOne content, one sick in part;
\nOne warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
\nOne longing for the night.<\/p>\n
At length slow evening came:
\nThey went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
\nLizzie most placid in her look,
\nLaura most like a leaping flame.
\nThey drew the gurgling water from its deep;
\nLizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
\nThen turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
\nThose furthest loftiest crags;
\nCome, Laura, not another maiden lags,
\nNo wilful squirrel wags,
\nThe beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
\nBut Laura loitered still among the rushes
\nAnd said the bank was steep.<\/p>\n
And said the hour was early still,
\nThe dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
\nListening ever, but not catching
\nThe customary cry,
\n“Come buy, come buy,”
\nWith its iterated jingle
\nOf sugar-baited words:
\nNot for all her watching
\nOnce discerning even one goblin
\nRacing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
\nLet alone the herds
\nThat used to tramp along the glen,
\nIn groups or single,
\nOf brisk fruit-merchant men.<\/p>\n
Till Lizzie urged: “O Laura, come;
\nI hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
\nYou should not loiter longer at this brook:
\nCome with me home.
\nThe stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
\nEach glow-worm winks her spark,
\nLet us get home before the night grows dark;
\nFor clouds may gather
\nThough this is summer weather,
\nPut out the lights and drench us through;
\nThen if we lost our way what should we do?”<\/p>\n
Laura turned cold as stone
\nTo find her sister heard that cry alone,
\nThat goblin cry,<\/p>\n
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
\nMust she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
\nMust she no more such succous pasture find,
\nGone deaf and blind?
\nHer tree of life drooped from the root:
\nShe said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
\nBut peering thro’ the dimness, naught discerning,
\nTrudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
\nSo crept to bed, and lay
\nSilent till Lizzie slept;
\nThen sat up in a passionate yearning,
\nAnd gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
\nAs if her heart would break.<\/p>\n
Day after day, night after night,
\nLaura kept watch in vain,
\nIn sullen silence of exceeding pain.
\nShe never caught again the goblin cry:
\n“Come buy, come buy”;–
\nShe never spied the goblin men
\nHawking their fruits along the glen:
\nBut when the noon waxed bright
\nHer hair grew thin and gray;
\nShe dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
\nTo swift decay, and burn
\nHer fire away.<\/p>\n
One day remembering her kernel-stone
\nShe set it by a wall that faced the south;
\nDewed it with tears, hoped for a root,<\/p>\n
Watched for a waxing shoot,
\nBut there came none;
\nIt never saw the sun,
\nIt never felt the trickling moisture run:
\nWhile with sunk eyes and faded mouth
\nShe dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
\nFalse waves in desert drouth
\nWith shade of leaf-crowned trees,
\nAnd burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.<\/p>\n
She no more swept the house,
\nTended the fowls or cows,
\nFetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
\nBrought water from the brook:
\nBut sat down listless in the chimney-nook
\nAnd would not eat.<\/p>\n
Tender Lizzie could not bear
\nTo watch her sister’s cankerous care,
\nYet not to share.
\nShe night and morning
\nCaught the goblins’ cry:
\n“Come buy our orchard fruits,
\nCome buy, come buy.”
\nBeside the brook, along the glen,
\nShe heard the tramp of goblin men,
\nThe voice and stir
\nPoor Laura could not hear;
\nLonged to buy fruit to comfort her,
\nBut feared to pay too dear.<\/p>\n
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
\nWho should have been a bride;
\nBut who for joys brides hope to have
\nFell sick and died
\nIn her gay prime,
\nIn earliest winter-time,
\nWith the first glazing rime,
\nWith the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.<\/p>\n
Till Laura, dwindling,
\nSeemed knocking at Death’s door:
\nThen Lizzie weighed no more
\nBetter and worse,
\nBut put a silver penny in her purse,
\nKissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
\nAt twilight, halted by the brook;
\nAnd for the first time in her life
\nBegan to listen and look.<\/p>\n
Laughed every goblin
\nWhen they spied her peeping:
\nCame towards her hobbling,
\nFlying, running, leaping,
\nPuffing and blowing,
\nChuckling, clapping, crowing,
\nClucking and gobbling,
\nMopping and mowing,
\nFull of airs and graces,
\nPulling wry faces,
\nDemure grimaces,<\/p>\n
Cat-like and rat-like,
\nRatel and wombat-like,
\nSnail-paced in a hurry,
\nParrot-voiced and whistler,
\nHelter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
\nChattering like magpies,
\nFluttering like pigeons,
\nGliding like fishes,–
\nHugged her and kissed her;
\nSqueezed and caressed her;
\nStretched up their dishes,
\nPanniers and plates:
\n“Look at our apples
\nRusset and dun,
\nBob at our cherries,
\nBite at our peaches,
\nCitrons and dates,
\nGrapes for the asking,
\nPears red with basking
\nOut in the sun,
\nPlums on their twigs;
\nPluck them and suck them,
\nPomegranates, figs.”<\/p>\n
“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
\nMindful of Jeanie,
\n“Give me much and many”;–
\nHeld out her apron,
\nTossed them her penny.
\n“Nay, take a seat with us,<\/p>\n
Honor and eat with us,”
\nThey answered grinning:
\n“Our feast is but beginning.
\nNight yet is early,
\nWarm and dew-pearly,
\nWakeful and starry:
\nSuch fruits as these
\nNo man can carry;
\nHalf their bloom would fly,
\nHalf their dew would dry,
\nHalf their flavor would pass by.
\nSit down and feast with us,
\nBe welcome guest with us,
\nCheer you and rest with us.”
\n“Thank you,” said Lizzie; “but one waits
\nAt home alone for me:
\nSo, without further parleying,
\nIf you will not sell me any
\nOf your fruits though much and many,
\nGive me back my silver penny
\nI tossed you for a fee.”
\nThey began to scratch their pates,
\nNo longer wagging, purring,
\nBut visibly demurring,
\nGrunting and snarling.
\nOne called her proud,
\nCross-grained, uncivil;
\nTheir tones waxed loud,
\nTheir looks were evil.
\nLashing their tails<\/p>\n
They trod and hustled her,
\nElbowed and jostled her,
\nClawed with their nails,
\nBarking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
\nTore her gown and soiled her stocking,
\nTwitched her hair out by the roots,
\nStamped upon her tender feet,
\nHeld her hands and squeezed their fruits
\nAgainst her mouth to make her eat.<\/p>\n
White and golden Lizzie stood,
\nLike a lily in a flood,–
\nLike a rock of blue-veined stone
\nLashed by tides obstreperously,–
\nLike a beacon left alone
\nIn a hoary roaring sea,
\nSending up a golden fire,–
\nLike a fruit-crowned orange-tree
\nWhite with blossoms honey-sweet
\nSore beset by wasp and bee,–
\nLike a royal virgin town
\nTopped with gilded dome and spire
\nClose beleaguered by a fleet
\nMad to tug her standard down.<\/p>\n
One may lead a horse to water,
\nTwenty cannot make him drink.
\nThough the goblins cuffed and caught her,
\nCoaxed and fought her,
\nBullied and besought her,<\/p>\n
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
\nKicked and knocked her,
\nMauled and mocked her,
\nLizzie uttered not a word;
\nWould not open lip from lip
\nLest they should cram a mouthful in;
\nBut laughed in heart to feel the drip
\nOf juice that syrupped all her face,
\nAnd lodged in dimples of her chin,
\nAnd streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
\nAt last the evil people,
\nWorn out by her resistance,
\nFlung back her penny, kicked their fruit
\nAlong whichever road they took,
\nNot leaving root or stone or shoot.
\nSome writhed into the ground,
\nSome dived into the brook
\nWith ring and ripple,
\nSome scudded on the gale without a sound,
\nSome vanished in the distance.<\/p>\n
In a smart, ache, tingle,
\nLizzie went her way;
\nKnew not was it night or day;
\nSprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
\nThreaded copse and dingle,
\nAnd heard her penny jingle
\nBouncing in her purse,–
\nIts bounce was music to her ear.
\nShe ran and ran<\/p>\n
As if she feared some goblin man
\nDogged her with gibe or curse
\nOr something worse:
\nBut not one goblin skurried after,
\nNor was she pricked by fear;
\nThe kind heart made her windy-paced
\nThat urged her home quite out of breath with haste
\nAnd inward laughter.<\/p>\n
She cried “Laura,” up the garden,
\n“Did you miss me?
\nCome and kiss me.
\nNever mind my bruises,
\nHug me, kiss me, suck my juices
\nSqueezed from goblin fruits for you,
\nGoblin pulp and goblin dew.
\nEat me, drink me, love me;
\nLaura, make much of me:
\nFor your sake I have braved the glen
\nAnd had to do with goblin merchant men.”<\/p>\n
Laura started from her chair,
\nFlung her arms up in the air,
\nClutched her hair:
\n“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
\nFor my sake the fruit forbidden?
\nMust your light like mine be hidden,
\nYour young life like mine be wasted,
\nUndone in mine undoing
\nAnd ruined in my ruin,<\/p>\n
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?”
\nShe clung about her sister,
\nKissed and kissed and kissed her:
\nTears once again
\nRefreshed her shrunken eyes,
\nDropping like rain
\nAfter long sultry drouth;
\nShaking with aguish fear, and pain,
\nShe kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.<\/p>\n
Her lips began to scorch,
\nThat juice was wormwood to her tongue,
\nShe loathed the feast:
\nWrithing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
\nRent all her robe, and wrung
\nHer hands in lamentable haste,
\nAnd beat her breast.
\nHer locks streamed like the torch
\nBorne by a racer at full speed,
\nOr like the mane of horses in their flight,
\nOr like an eagle when she stems the light
\nStraight toward the sun,
\nOr like a caged thing freed,
\nOr like a flying flag when armies run.<\/p>\n
Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
\nMet the fire smouldering there
\nAnd overbore its lesser flame;
\nShe gorged on bitterness without a name:<\/p>\n
Ah! fool, to choose such part
\nOf soul-consuming care!
\nSense failed in the mortal strife:
\nLike the watch-tower of a town
\nWhich an earthquake shatters down,
\nLike a lightning-stricken mast,
\nLike a wind-uprooted tree
\nSpun about,
\nLike a foam-topped water-spout
\nCast down headlong in the sea,
\nShe fell at last;
\nPleasure past and anguish past,
\nIs it death or is it life?<\/p>\n
Life out of death.
\nThat night long Lizzie watched by her,
\nCounted her pulse’s flagging stir,
\nFelt for her breath,
\nHeld water to her lips, and cooled her face
\nWith tears and fanning leaves:
\nBut when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
\nAnd early reapers plodded to the place
\nOf golden sheaves,
\nAnd dew-wet grass
\nBowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
\nAnd new buds with new day
\nOpened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
\nLaura awoke as from a dream,
\nLaughed in the innocent old way,
\nHugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;<\/p>\n
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
\nHer breath was sweet as May,
\nAnd light danced in her eyes.<\/p>\n
Days, weeks, months, years
\nAfterwards, when both were wives
\nWith children of their own;
\nTheir mother-hearts beset with fears,
\nTheir lives bound up in tender lives;
\nLaura would call the little ones
\nAnd tell them of her early prime,
\nThose pleasant days long gone
\nOf not-returning time:
\nWould talk about the haunted glen,
\nThe wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
\nTheir fruits like honey to the throat,
\nBut poison in the blood;
\n(Men sell not such in any town;)
\nWould tell them how her sister stood
\nIn deadly peril to do her good,
\nAnd win the fiery antidote:
\nThen joining hands to little hands
\nWould bid them cling together,
\n“For there is no friend like a sister,
\nIn calm or stormy weather,
\nTo cheer one on the tedious way,
\nTo fetch one if one goes astray,
\nTo lift one if one totters down,
\nTo strengthen whilst one stands.”<\/p>\n
Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” is a narrative poem that tells the story of two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, who are tempted by goblin merchants selling exotic and alluring fruits. Despite Lizzie’s warnings, Laura succumbs to temptation and trades a lock of her golden hair for the forbidden fruit. After indulging in the goblin fruit, Laura falls into a deep depression and begins to waste away, unable to hear the goblins’ call or find their fruit again. Her health deteriorates rapidly, and she longs desperately for another taste of the magical fruit.<\/p>\n
Seeing her sister’s decline, Lizzie bravely confronts the goblin merchants to obtain more fruit for Laura. The goblins attempt to force Lizzie to eat the fruit, but she steadfastly refuses, enduring their physical abuse. Lizzie returns home covered in fruit juice, which Laura kisses from her face. This act serves as an antidote, curing Laura and breaking the spell. The poem concludes with both sisters grown up, married with children of their own. Laura tells the story to their children as a cautionary tale about temptation and the power of sisterly love. The final message emphasizes the unparalleled bond between sisters and their ability to support and protect one another through life’s challenges.<\/p>\n
Christina Georgina Rossetti was an English poet born on December 5, 1830, in London. She was the youngest child of Gabriele Rossetti, an Italian political exile and scholar, and Frances Polidori, sister of Lord Byron’s physician. Christina grew up in a highly artistic and literary family; her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti became a famous Pre-Raphaelite painter and poet.<\/p>\n
Rossetti began writing poetry at a young age and published her first poems at 18 under the pseudonym Ellen Alleyne. Her most famous works include “Goblin Market” (1862), “Remember” (1862), and “In the Bleak Midwinter” (1872), which became a well-known Christmas carol.<\/p>\n
Throughout her life, Rossetti was deeply religious, adhering to Anglo-Catholicism. This faith greatly influenced her writing, which often explored themes of love, death, and spiritual devotion. She turned down two marriage proposals due to religious differences, choosing instead to dedicate herself to her family, faith, and poetry.<\/p>\n
Rossetti also worked as a volunteer at a home for former prostitutes and was involved in the campaign against animal cruelty. Despite suffering from Graves’ disease in her later years, she continued to write and publish. Christina Rossetti died on December 29, 1894, at the age of 64, leaving behind a legacy as one of the most important female poets of the Victorian era. Her work has continued to influence writers and artists long after her death.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” is a narrative poem that tells the story of two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, who are tempted by goblin merchants selling exotic<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":66054,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[418,469,64],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-66053","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-halloween-poems","category-horror-poem","category-rossetti"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/66053","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=66053"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/66053\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/66054"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=66053"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=66053"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=66053"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}