posted on 2024-04-05, 12:55authored byFirst World War Poetry Digital Archive Project Team
<p dir="ltr"> Feet and faces tingle<br> In that frore land:<br> Legs wobble and go wingle,<br> You scarce can stand.<br> The skies are jewelled all around,<br> The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground,<br> The Finn with face like paper<br> And eyes like a lighted taper<br> Hurls his rough rune<br> At the wintry moon<br> And stamps to mark the tune.</p>