It would not be you, dreaming, mid-summer,

Dreaming your grand piano, which, waking, you will play,

Not you, who, in love in woods, hand in hand with her

Plays Liszt, or when you wake, will play,

And it would not be you, hunched at the keys, mid-summer,

In love in woods, who paid some laborers to carry a piano

Far into Karelia, where you imagine

You will make at least three kinds of love.