Quotes About Mist

Walking down Belmotte was the oddest sensation-- every step took us deeper into the mist until at last it closed over our heads. It was like being drowned in the ghost of water.

he talked quite naturally while we ate — about the difficulty of finding words to describe the luminous mist, and why one has the desire to describe beauty. Perhaps it's an attempt to possess it, I said. Or be possessed by it; perhaps that's the same thing, really. I suppose it's the complete identification with beauty one's seeking. The mist grew brighter and brighter.

Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight.

ten years of our lives were as a mist that rolls away.

We live in an age when there is a false glare on the things of time and a great mist over the things of eternity.

There was so much time that marvelous summer. Day after day, mist rose from the meadow as the sky lightened and hedges, barns and woods took shape until, at last, the long curving back of the hills lifted away from the Plain. It was a sort of stage-magic.

Lark of memory it is your blood that is flowing and not mine Lark of memory I have tightened my fist Lark of memory dead bird of mist you should not have come to eat from my hand the grains of oblivion.

I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation as much as a series of sounds. It reverberated inside me.

We were equally tired, in mid-century, of cold sanity and hot blasphemy; of the over-cerebral and of the over-faecal; the way out lay somewhere else. Words had lost their power, either for good or for evil; still hung, like a mist, over the reality of action, distorting, misleading, castrating; but at least since Hitler and Hiroshima they were seen to be a mist, a flimsy superstructure.

a cloud, it would

There had been a frozen mist here, and the trees were spun into feathers. Their fragile brilliance made me wonder why, into the spotlessness of Creation, God had seen fit to introduce soiling, twisting, rampaging, Man.

Thick mist swirled up from the river. Someone, Who claimed to have known me years before, Approached, saying there were many poets Wandering around who wished to be alive again. They were ready to say the words they had been unable to say— Words whose absence had been the silence of love, Of pain, and even of pleasure. —Mark Strand, from "XLV," Dark Harbor: A Poem (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994)

While we may open the books of the past, we may but grant flying glances of the future, through the mist that veils it.

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

The fog is rising.

Rafe pulled against the soldiers who twisted his hands behind his back to chain him, but his eyes never left mine. I looked at him, not a stranger, but not a farmer either. It had been a clever deception from the very beginning. The wind swirled between us, threw mist in our faces. Whispered. In the farthest corner … I will find you. I wiped at my eyes, the real and true blurring. But I knew this much. He came. He was here. And maybe, for now, that was all the truth I needed.

Coleridge: poet and philosopher wrecked in a mist of opium.

Funny weather today,' said the ferryman, bending slowly to his oars. 'In the morning you wake up to such a mist that you can't see two fathoms distance. And then about ten o'clock out comes the sun. One says to oneself "Here's spring on the way". And no sooner said than hailstorms set in for the afternoon. And now the wind's getting up, and there's going to be quite a blow, that's certain. Funny weather.

No lake is beautiful without the sky, without the mist or without the trees and the autumn leaves! No beauty is beautiful in itself!

It's the first time I've seen early morning in a terribly long time— The sun all yellow and red, like a huge luminous peach hanging on a black shadow-tree—just visible thru the mist—

The merciless scent of flowers was so heavy here that it hung like mist on the cold air. The room was crowded with flowers. In the centre, on three shrouded trestles, Robert Gospell's body lay in its coffin.

Ghosts grew from the thin grey mist of hollow hills, the damp and drizzle of dusk, the breath of the dead.

Hild stood on the headland in the light mist of dawn with her toes hanging over the edge of the grassy east cliff. The edge of all things. Between day and night, between sky and earth, sea and land. The land smelt of iron and salt.

Peretur blinked, and the strange underwater image of the man lying on stone dissolved into mist. She swayed again, and this time Nimuë steadied her.