For Elise

I wrote these humble verses for Elise.

For all my weeping, all my yearning,

I have no real possessions, only these.

And now, the dying leaves are turning

from youthful green to amber on the trees,

my heart, all shallow comfort spurning,

is calling through the twilight for Elise.

I wrote these verses, crying for Elise.

Swallows, to the south returning,

are borne off on the autumn's sobbing breeze,

and, looking up, a soul is burning --

I long to soar with them across the seas,

but cannot watch without discerning

a part of me that hopes, yet, for Elise.