Quotes About Mist

My hands grow cold and my flesh creeps; and yet the night is warm. Only the mist is cold, this mysterious mist that trails over the dead and sucks from them their last, creeping life. By morning they will be pale and green and their blood congealed and black.

But these, wide-finned in silver, roaring, the light mist of their propellers in the sun, these do not move like sharks. They move like nothing there has ever been. They move like mechanized doom.

As the Sun rises,so shall the sadness disappear.It's like the mist

It's gone the way the mist is burned off the hollows in broken ground when the sun comes out,' the Colonel said. 'And you're the sun.

The sadness will dissipate as the sun rises. It is like a mist.

Å"The sadness will dissipate as the sun rises. It is like a mist.â€

At their very feet had been the river. The boat came breasting out of the mist, and in they stepped. All new things in life were meant to come like that.

October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.

the mist felt oddly purposeful, as though it were on its way to an appointment.

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst...

Tendrils of mist slithered over the forest floor, around the base of trees. Xander noticed that some of it had climbed the porch pillars and drifted, almost invisibly, over the shingles of the porch roof. It reminded him of an old TV series Dean's dad had bought on DVD: Dark Shadows. It was about a creepy old house and a vampire who lived there. Barnabas, Xander remembered.

You do see me crossing the meadow stiff and dead from the mist? I long for that home, that home I've never had, and without any hope that I'll ever be able to reach it. For such a home, never touched, I carry that longing that will never die, like that meadow dies stiff and dead from the mist. You do see me crossing it, full of dread?

SONG OF QUIETNESS Drink deep, drink deep of quietness, And on the margins of the sea Remember not thine old distress Nor all the miseries to be. Calmer than mists, and cold As they, that fold on fold Up the dim valley are rolled, Learn thou to be.

There was mist in the nighttime air, like a note on a calendar. The end of summer was coming. Fall was on its way.

We are like fruitflies, measuring everything in terms of our own lifespan. But since our lifespans are so short, our perspective is entirely wrong. God, who inhabits eternity, sees things differently. He knows that our lives are just a mist. We should trust Him. It was not that long ago that Jesus came and it will not be that long before He returns.

place was half hidden in mist, so that if you had glanced up at the mountain you would probably not have noticed the building

That night the mountain mist came rolling down from the pine forest and lingered far into the morning.

Everything comes out of smoke and mist and nothingness, a mystical happening…

As tree shapes from mist / Her young death / Loose / In you.

Water rising under rock Breaks earth's lock, Floods thirst roots, Nurtures sap and trunk and shoots, Greens and plumps each greedy leaf Till dappled sunlight like a thief Sucks leaf-water as I breathe, Makes of mist an airy wreath To drift and float and wander high To the sky, And fall again, Sweet, rich rain, Run under rock and Rise again.

But if any far-off state there be Dearer than life to mortality, The hand of the Dark hath hold thereof, And mist is under the mist above; So we are sick for life, and cling On earth to this nameless and shining thing, For other life is a fountain sealed, And the deeps below are unrevealed, And we drift on legends for ever.

All of history happens in the mist, and the great battles we are told about, the great ceremonies, all man's greatest achievements, are merely great spectacles shrouded in mist, cortèges glimpsed in the distance in the dim twilight.

Fog is a cloud on the ground.

Indeed if one had just seen him at the end of the evening with the dusk and the mist of the fenlands close behind him he might have believed that in the dusk and the mist was an army that followed this gay worn confident man. Had the army been there Niv was sane. Had the world accepted that an army was there, still he was sane. But the lonely fancy that had not fact to feed on, nor the fancy of any other for fellowship, was for its loneliness mad.