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The Cart Of Life
Aleksandr Pushkin (6th June, 1799 – 10th February, 1837)

Tho’ it is hard – the earthly load,
The Cart is easy in its move,
The reckless couch-time, on road,
Will not get of his bench above.

In early morn we take our places;
We glad to break our empty head,
And leaving leisure for the races,
We cry, “Go on, you idler, damned!”

At noon, our bravery’s diminished;
We have been tossed and more afraid
Of slopes, steep, and ravines, peevish,
And cry, “Be easier, you, brat!”

The cart rolls in the former fashion,
By evening, we have used to it,
Wait for night lodgings, doze, patient, –
And Time tends horses to full speed.

 

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