Shakespeare.    

Milton.    

Barry Cornwall.    

Rev. Wm. L. Bowles.    

Shakespeare.    

Dryden.    

William Cullen Bryant.    

William Cullen Bryant.    

Wordsworth.    

W. H. Gibson.    

	What wind blew you hither, Pistol?
	Not the ill wind which blows no man to good.

Shakespeare.    

	The winds with wonder whist,
	Smoothly the waters kisst.

Milton.    

	The wind breathes not, and the wave
	Walks softly as above a grave.

Bailey.    

Dryden.    

Susan Coolidge.    

	Do not the bright June roses blow
	To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

William Cullen Bryant.    

	Full fast the leaves are dropping
	Before that wandering breath.

William Cullen Bryant.    

	Except wind stands as it never stood
	It is an ill wind turns none to good.

Thomas Tusser.    

Longfellow.    

	I hear the howl of the wind that brings
	The long drear storm on its heavy wings.

William Cullen Bryant.    

	O wind,
	If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Shelley.    

Bible.    

	As winds come lightly whispering from the west,
	Kissing, not ruffling the blue deep’s serene.

Byron.    

	The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
	Kisses the blushing leaf.

Longfellow.    

	The winds of winter wailing through the woods;
	The mighty laughter of the vernal floods.

Abraham Coles.    

	When the gust hath blown his fill,
	Ending on the rustling leaves,
	With minute drops from off the eaves.

Milton.    

	Never does a wilder song
	Steal the breezy lyre along,
	When the wind in odors dying,
	Wooes it with enamor’d sighing.

Moore.    

John Selden.    

	A melancholy sound is in the air,
	A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail
	Around my dwelling. ’Tis the Wind of night.

William Cullen Bryant.    

	A gentle wind of western birth,
	From some far summer sea,
	Wakes daisies in the wintry earth.

George MacDonald.    

	Madame, bear in mind
	That princes govern all things—save the wind.

Victor Hugo.    

	Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find
	The perfumes thou dost bring?

William Cullen Bryant.    

	Perhaps the wind
	Wails so in winter for the summer’s dead,
	And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries
	For what has been and is not.

George Eliot.    

	Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
	Has grown familiar with your song;
	I hear it in the opening year,
	I listen, and it cheers me long.

Longfellow.    

	Through the gaunt woods the winds are shrilling cold,
	Down from the rifted rock the sunbeam pours
	Over the cold gray slopes, and stony moors.

Frederick Tennyson.    

	We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south!
	For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth;
	For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God,
	Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod!

Whittier.    

	Boughs are dally rifled
	By the gusty thieves,
	And the book of Nature
	Getteth short of leaves.

Hood.    

	The morning wind the mead hath kissed;
	It leads in narrow lines
	The shadows of the silver mist,
	To pause among the pines.

Ruskin.    

	Thou wind?
	Which art the unseen similitude of God
	The Spirit, His most meet and mightiest sign.

Bailey.    

Dickens.    

	The winds that never moderation knew,
	Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
	Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
	Their straighten’d lungs or conscious of their charge.

Dryden.    

	A fresher Gale
	Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,
	Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;
	While the Quail clamors for his running mate.

Thomson.    

	The faint old man shall lean his silver head
	To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
	And dry the moistened curls that overspread
	His temples, while his breathing grows more deep.

Bryant.    

	A breeze came wandering from the sky,
	Light as the whispers of a dream;
	He put the o’erhanging grasses by,
	And softly stooped to kiss the stream,
	The pretty stream, the flattered stream,
	The shy, yet unreluctant stream.

Bryant.    

	I dropped my pen; and listened to the wind
	That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost;
	A midnight harmony and wholly lost
	To the general sense of men by chains confined
	Of business, care, or pleasure,—or resigned
	To timely sleep.

Wordsworth.    

	And the South Wind—he was dressed
	With a ribbon round his breast
	That floated, flapped, and fluttered
	In it riotous unrest
	And a drapery of mist
	From the shoulder to the wrist
	Floating backward with the motion
	Of the waving hand he kissed.

James Whitcomb Riley.    

Hawthorne.    

	Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o’er the mountains,
	Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea,
	Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy mountains,
	Draughts of life to me.

D. M. Mulock.    

	The bitter-sweet, the haunting air
	Creepeth, bloweth everywhere;
	It preys on all, all prey on it,
	Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,
	Stings the strong with enterprise,
	Makes travellers long for Indian skies.

Emerson.    

	O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
	Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
	Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
	Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
	Pestilence-stricken multitudes.

Shelley.    

	The wind, the wandering wind
	Of the golden summer eves—
	Whence is the thrilling magic
	Of its tunes amongst the leaves?
	Oh, is it from the waters,
	Or from the long, tall grass?
	Or is it from the hollow rocks
	Through which its breathings pass?

Mrs. Hemans.    

	Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air,
	Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
	Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the air
	O’er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
	Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;
	Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
	Before you the catalpa’s blossoms flew,
	Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

William Cullen Bryant.    

	The wind has a language, I would I could learn!
	Sometimes ’tis soothing, and sometimes ’tis stern,
	Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song,
	And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along,
	And the forest is lull’d by the dreamy strain,
	And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,
	And its crystal arms are folded in rest,
	And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

L. E. Landon.    

	The wind is rising; it seizes and shakes
	The doors and window-blinds, and makes
	Mysterious moanings in the halls;
	The convent-chimneys seem almost
	The trumpets of some heavenly host,
	Setting its watch upon our walls!

Longfellow.    

	Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
	In the gay woods and in the golden air,
	Like to a good old age released from care,
	Journeying, in long serenity, away.
	In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
	Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks,
	And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
	And music of kind voices ever nigh;
	And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
	Pass silently from men as thou dost pass.

Bryant.    

	I loved the Wind.
	Whether it kissed my hair and pallid brow;
	Whether with sweets my sense it fed, as now;
	Whether it blew across the scudding main;
	Whether it shrieked above a stretch of plain;
	Whether, on autumn days, in solemn woods,
	And barren solitudes,
	Along the waste it whirled the withered leaves;
	Whether it hummed around my cottage eaves,
	And shook the rattling doors,
	And died with long-drawn sighs, on bleak and dreary moors;
	Whether in winter, when its trump did blow
	Through desolate gorges dirges of despair,
	It drove the snow-flakes slantly down the air,
	And piled the drifts of snow;
	Or whether it breathed soft in vernal hours,
	And filled the trees with sap, and filled the grass with flowers.

R. H. Stoddard.