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.  
               D.H. Lawrence
               (Amores, 1916)