What wind blew you hither, Pistol?
Not the ill wind which blows none to good.
SHAKS.: _2 Henry IV.,_ Act v., Sc. 3.
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: _Christus, Abbot Joachim._
A gentle wind of western birth,
From some far summer sea,
Wakes daisies in the wintry earth.
GEORGE MACDONALD: _Songs of the Spring Days._
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 Rain Dream._