suspense

• david herbert lawrence şiiri
  
  the wind comes from the north
  blowing little flocks of birds
  like spray across the town,
  and a train roaring forth
  rushes stampeding down
  south, with flying curds
  of steam, from 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.