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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
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#1097615 added September 18, 2025 at 3:07pm
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On the Hill with Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Prompt:
"Go, sit upon the hill and turn your eyes around, where waving woods and waters wild do hymn an autumn sound."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Write about this quote in your Blog entry today.


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When I was very young, one of the adults took me and my cousins, to have a picnic on a hill, overlooking the train tracks. The view all around was beautiful but all we cared about was hearing the train's whistle and jumping up and down and waving at the passengers as the train passed by us. This quote reminded me of those very early days, decades ago.

So unlike the clowning and rowdiness of me and my cousins, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's words are steeped in the quiet wonder of nature. To sit on a hill is to rise above the noise of the ordinary and experience nature and its wonders. Trees stirred by the wind are musical, with each leaf like a small instrument in the orchestra of branches. The waters, I imagine, glitter and join in the music with their own fluent songs. Such harmony can only belong to autumn and the impressive words of this poet.

Yes, the season may be turning, but there is nothing to feel sad about it, if I can listen with my whole heart...and ears. Every sound--breeze, ripple, and birdcalls--praise softly the change in season and I for one can feel myself as being part of the rhythm, and not outside of it.

I am not a Victorian poet like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but over the years, I have really enjoyed her work and I'm grateful to her for the impressions I still gather from her poetry. Therefore, maybe I should tell her, in her own words, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

As such, her hill has become my easy chair, woods a choir, waters a poem. They point to nature's passing through time and they tell me to celebrate it. Just maybe, autumn does not sing of endings, but of ripening in beauty before the winter's rest.




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