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.