The summer makes us sleep.
Assume slumbering in heaven will be similar,
except heavenly naps will last a millennium
and we will miss human folly and tears
during that long era.
Sad earth will still exist and certain summers
will be especially hot—
when are they not?
in August or July,
as melodies of Chopin along the waters die.
A drowsy poet will express
the same satisfaction with rest
which against our will the paradise of summer provides.