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.