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Robert Graves

Robert Graves

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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