Patience, D. H. Lawrence
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.