While the wanton Zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings.

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds. - John Keats,

Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.

And soften'd sounds along the waters die: Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play.

Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane.

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.