A wind comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds 
Like spray across the town, 
And a train, roaring forth, 
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.
 
Whither I turn and set 
Like a needle steadfastly,
Waiting ever to get
The news that she is free;
But ever fixed, as yet, 
To the lode of her agony.