Pushkin’s poem “The Cart of Life” on the ages of man and the passage of time

The Cart of Life. So it turns out Pushkin is writing about us, lads.

Though at times its burden is heavy,
The cart is light as it goes;
The reckless driver, grey-haired Time,
Drives on, and will not climb down from the box.

In the morning we get into the cart;
We are glad to break our necks
And, scorning sloth and ease,
We cry: get along! . . . .

But by noon we no longer have that daring;
We have been shaken up; we are more afraid
Of both the slopes and the ravines;
We cry: go easier, you fool!

The cart rolls on as before;
Towards evening we have grown used to it
And, dozing, we ride to our night's lodging —
While Time whips on the horses.

Literal translation