Quotes About Mist

Here in this wild and beautiful spot amid the mountains, the dark woods, the rising mist, the new moon hanging above the silhouettes of the peaks, we waited, in spite of the night chill, until the last sunlight of the spring had ebbed from the sky.

Ah, what sights and sounds and pain lie beneath that mist. And we had thought that our hard climb out of that cruel valley led to some cool, green and peaceful, sunlit place---but it's all jungle here, a wild and savage wilderness that's overrun with ruins. But put on your crown, my Queen, and we will build a New City on these ruins.

Cuando el sol, frente a mí, irrumpa violento, todo caerá en la sombra otra vez: en la sombra del sol –de eso el que mandó sabe–, en el humo y la niebla.

Here were love letters, the youth knew. Secret love letters. Unfound, still waiting somewhere beyond the mist. A young man's words for this girl, maybe her words for him. Their private words for each other. Somewhere in the world, these letters sat hidden still, but might, at any moment, be found and read, calling her most cherished secrets from their hiding place back into the circle of the sun.

Though I may seem at times somewhat distant from you, through the gray mist of philology, I am never far, my thoughts always circle around you.

Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard.

I feel drawn to little temples on lonely hilltops. With the mist swirling round them, and the wind humming in the stunted pines, they absorb some of the magic and mystery of their surroundings and transmit it to the questing pilgrim.

I walked far down the beach, soothed by the rhythm of the waves, the sun on my bare back and legs, the wind and mist from the spray on my hair.

The blowing mist, filled with the light of the moon, was seeking to swallow the lamps of the heavens.

I would have given you my secrets the first I came with you to this house. I told you then that such a place could draw you out of eternity, that it was as the castles of old. Remember the patterns, Julien, the graceful battlements. And through the mist you will see them, distinct. But you would not have my lessons then. Will you have them now? I know you. You are alive. You didn't want to hear about death.

Into the darker regions of Venice I traveled, the mist hanging thick over the canals, to those dimly lighted places where ruffians abound.

Maybe the heart is part of the mist. And that's all that there is or could ever exist. Maybe and maybe and maybe some more. Maybe's the exit that I'm looking for.

He heard her in his heart - whispering from the mist

careful the morning lest it wake from slumber the city half-encumbered by the morning mist ...

skeins of mist like translucent silk, bending and unbending in the headlight tunnels...

A bad black horse steals Steals into my head And moves across the landscape Of my mind, while I sleep. He does what he likes in there. Next day I feel The damage. In the quiet mist I watch her go. It feels like snow. There's a feeling that I get. I walk back home Sad and slow.

Like ghosts the children walked across the lawn on their bare feet. The moon was full. Above the damp grass hung a veil of mist, luminous with moonlight and spangled with fireflies. There was no wind, and the sound of the brook was very distinct, tinkling, splashing, running softly. It made Mona think of an ancient fountain, shaped like a shell, covered with moss, and set in a secluded garden. Something she half remembered, or imagined.

From the other side of the hill, two enormous black wings appeared through the mist. Then a pair of sharp, twisted horns. Slowly, Maleficent rose into the air, looking like a creature from hell. Behind her, there was only mist. No army of her own. No faeries or creatures. Just Maleficent.

Do I want to, can I face my own pain alone now? Shock keeps horror at bay. Hands off. Distanced by mist and pride and drink and friends and necessities like food, babies, fires... So the pain sits still, crouching, heavy, occupying all my inside, always, all the time, whatever my outside does.

There was something about Herbert which shocked him inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set upon his face, but rather a indefinite terror which hung about him like a mist.

How sweet is life after all, when the mist of a mild intoxication casts its veil over the miseries of existence.

Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard.

held all his flickering presence, gentle as mist in my arms, hard as metal.

And now there came both mist and snow,And it grew wondrous cold:And ice, mast-high, came floating by,As green as emerald.