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 Feet and faces tingle 
In that frore land: 
Legs wobble and go wingle, 
You scarce can stand.
The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with face like paper And eyes like a lighted taper Hurls his rough rune At the wintry moon And stamps to mark the tune.

by Robert Graves
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