Poem by David Herbert Lawrence

Patience

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. 

1. Submergence
2. A Sane Revolution
3. Scent Of Irises
4. How Beastly the Bourgeois Is
5. The Mosquito

Edith Wharton Patience ("PATIENCE and I have traveled hand in hand")

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