Quotes About Mist

Leaves fell around me, red and gold stars falling through the mist.

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Bleeding, idleness and mist, he murmured in an unusual mood of poetry. It's like life, isn't it... First the wound, then the resting, and then the uncertainty of it all.

As the mist leaves no scar On the dark green hill So my body leaves no scar On you and never will

AS THE MIST LEAVES NO SCAR As the mist leaves no scar On the dark green hill, So my body leaves no scar On you, nor ever will. When wind and hawk encounter, What remains to keep? So you and I encounter, Then turn, then fall to sleep. As many nights endure Without a moon or star, So will we endure When one is gone and far.

The blows, as you see, have agreed with me; the roseate supersensual mist has dissolved, and no one can ever make me believe that these 'sacred apes of Benares' or Plato's rooster are the image of God

All of [the] activities here have a surreptitious end-of-the-world feel to them:... these joggers sleepwalking in the mist like shadow's who have escaped from Plato's cave

Reality is water-soluble. What we could see, the rocks, the shore, the trees, the boats on the lake, had lost their usual definition and blurred into the long grey of a week's rain. Even the house, that we fancied was made of stone, wavered inside a heavy mist and through that mist, sometimes, a door or a window appeared like an image in a dream. Every solid thing had dissolved into its watery equivalent.

He turned away and I turned to him in vivid heat to look on the sun-dried world. The groves and towers were gone. The Word was gone. The sea had shrunk away leaving only the blue mist of after-rain. Ignorant of alchemy they put their faith in technology and turned the whole world into gold. The dead sand shone.

We were in Ireland. Was there ever a country so damp? I had to wring out my mind to think clearly. I was a morning mist of confusion.

The red glow from the stoplight wrapped around Daisy like a bloody veil. She leaned against the crooked bus-stop sign on Airline Highway, fighting the craving for a cigarette. Crimson nighttime mist swirled about her face. It was warm, almost midnight.

It's a funny thing about bogs. You can fill them with rocks and sand and old logs and make a little fenced-in yard on top with a woodpile and chopping block - but bogs go right on behaving like bogs. Early in the spring they breathe ice and make their own mist, in remembrance of the time when they had black water and their own sedge blossoming untouched.

Damp veils of mist swirled around them. They were dreadfully cold (Moomintroll thought longingly of his woolly trousers) and surrounded completely by an awful floating emptiness. "I always thought clouds were soft and woolly and nice to be in," said Sniff, sneezing. "Ugh! I'm beginning to be sorry I ever came on this expedition.

The mist, the rain, and cold, low clouds gave the train a feeling of early morning, a chill and predawn dimness that lasted until noon.

The ribbon of milky mist still lay in the gully. It stretched down to the sea, and there were patches across the sand hills like steam from a kettle.

The light had flooded the land long before the sun was up, and the sea, where wisps of mist clung to it, looked like milk in a pan being heated to make cream.

It is where the balance quivers, and the proportions are veiled in mist, that the opportunity for world-saving decisions presents itself.

Every journey ends; terminates, at some pier, some mist-shrouded wharf, where torches are waiting.

I can see the sea that encircles the island and beyond it, the bright lights of human cities and towns through the ever-present mist. I have never looked directly from our world in to theirs. Locke puts his hand against my back, between my shoulder blades. 'At night, the human world looks as though it's full of fallen stars.

And here is the sense of its existence: it is conscious of being superfluous. It dilutes, scatters itself, tries to lose itself on the brown wall, along the lamp post or down there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself. That is its lot.

Surprisingly, fainting sounded like a really good idea. If I fainted, I'd be unconscious, so I wouldn't have to see the impossible anymore, nor would I have to feel so dizzy and sick. Than maybe when I woke up, all of this would go away and I'd find it was all just a bad dream. The mist started to turn dark around the edges.....For the record: fainting sucks.

There are times of great beauty on a coffee farm. When the plantation flowered in the beginning of the rains, it was a radiant sight, like a cloud of chalk, in the mist of the drizzling rain.

You say that it is time to shake off the Mist, but Mankind walks in a Mist; that Reason which you cry up as the Glory of this Age is a Proteus and Cameleon that changes its Shape almost in every Man: there is no Folly that may not have a thousand Reasons produc'd to advance it into the Class of Wisdom. Reason itself is a Mist.

He felt at peace only in the hour before dawn, when the darkness seemed to give way slowly to a mist, and it was at this hour that he would wake and sit by his window.