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.
