And all through that long night, no matter What road the frantic wretch might take, There still would pound with ponderous clatter The Bronze Horseman in his wake. And ever since, when in his erring He chanced upon that square again, They saw a sick confusion blurring His features. One hand swiftly then Flew to his breast, as if containing The anguished heart’s affrighted straining; His worn-out cap he then would raise, Cast to the ground a troubled gaze And slink aside.
Alexander Pushkin