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						Finland by Robert Graves 
						
						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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