Russian mist, and cold, and darkness, on the weary Russian roads; And the sound of Russian swear-words, and the whack of Russian goads; There's the jerk of tightened traces and of taughtened bullock-chains-- 'Tis the siege guns and the field guns, and the ammunition trains. There's the grind of tires unceasing, where the metal caps the clay; And the "clock," "clock," "clock" of axles going on all night and day. And the groaning undercarriage and the king pin and the wheel, And the rear wheels, which are fore wheels, with their murd'rous loads of steel.
Here and there the sound of cattle in the mist and in the sleet, And the scrambling start of horses, and the ceaseless splosh of feet. There's the short, sharp, sudden order such as drivers give to slaves, And a ceaseless, soughing, sighing, like the sound of sea-worn caves When a gale is slowly dying and the darkness hides the waves, And the ghostly phosphorescence flashes past the rocky arch Like the wraiths of vanished armies. It is Ivan on the march! 'Tis an army that is marching over other armies' graves.
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