Finland

 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.

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