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— William Cowper"Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze."
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
— William C. Bryant
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She comes majestic with her swelling sails, The gallant Ship: along her watery way, Homeward she drives before the favouring gales; Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
— Robert Southey
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