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.