A wind comes from the north <br />Blowing little flocks of birds <br />Like spray across the town, <br />And a train, roaring forth, <br />Rushes stampeding down <br />With cries and flying curds <br />Of steam, out of the darkening north. <br /> <br />Whither I turn and set <br />Like a needle steadfastly, <br />Waiting ever to get <br />The news that she is free; <br />But ever fixed, as yet, <br />To the lode of her agony.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/patience-3/
