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Mist Quotes

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Mist Quotes

“The desperate piercing scream of horror echoed far above the sharpened tops of the trees wrapped in thin obsidian-transparent mist, and I startled jerkily, tripping again, and almost collapsed onto the cold moist ground.”

RomanceMysteryColdHorrorDespairRomanticYoung AdultMysteriousSuspenseDesperateScreamTransparentIntroductionGothicMistFirstColdnessGothFarGroundEchoGothic RomanceObsidianAboveIntroWhat To ReadIntroductory
Book:Nightmarish Sacrifice
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“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?”

HomeMistDo You See
Book:Oppressive Light: Selected Poems by Robert Walser
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“Approaching the Start of Civil Exams Perhaps I was once a young Chinese scholar approaching the start of civil exams, my mind grown weary and sad from seclusion with books on syntax and poetic style. All that I knew were the mist-covered mountains and sweet white blossoms of mountain apples that grew in the valleys of my province. But I had been gone over six years busy with studies in the Heavenly City empty and thin despite my work. I showed my verses to an older poet who told me a truth I longed to believe: all knowledge is futile and barren which does not open the love of your friends.”

LoveTruthFriendshipWorkKnowledgeStyleBooksPoetSweetSadBusyChinesePoeticScholarVersesWearyMountainsMistBarrenSyntaxSeclusionFutileBlossoms
Author:Jim Chapson
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“The moon went slowly down in loveliness; she departed into the depth of the horizon, and long veil-like shadows crept up the sky through which the stars appeared. Soon, however, they too began to pale before a splendour in the east, and the advent of the dawn declared itself in the newborn blue of heaven. Quieter and yet more quiet grew the sea, quiet as the soft mist that brooded on her bosom, and covered up her troubling, as in our tempestuous life the transitory wreaths of sleep brook upon a pain-racked soul, causing it to forget its sorrow. From the east to the west sped those angels of the Dawn, from sea to sea, from mountain-top to mountain-top, scattering light from breast and wing. On they sped out of the darkness, perfect, glorious; on, over the quiet sea, over the low coast-line, and the swamps beyond, and the mountains above them; over those who slept in peace and those who woke in sorrow; over the evil and the good; over the living and the dead; over the wide world and all that breathes or as breathed thereon.”

LifeNightStarsSeaMoonSettingObservationDawnSunsetHorizonSunriseMistPlaceDuskHeavens
Book:She
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“Ik zat op mijn handen en keek door het raam naar de mist, die uit het weiland achter de boomgaard kwam opzetten en voortdurend dikker werd. Na een poosje kon ik alleen nog de boom zien die het dichtst bij het raam stond: het was een jonge hoogstam, hij had nog nooit alleen in de mist gestaan en het zweet brak hem uit. Ik had medelijden met hem en besloot ook hèm een naam te geven, Juliette. Een meisjesnaam, waarom niet, hij zag er zo vrouwelijk uit, zo tenger, zo aandoenlijk hulpeloos en eenzaam met zijn veel te lage kalkring die aan een afgezakte armband deed denken. Het was een idee van Ingrid, om de bomen een naam te geven. Zij kon erg goed met ze opschieten en ik heb dikwijls het gevoel gehad, dat Hector beschaamd naar haar luisterde als ze tegen hem zei: Hector, je stelt me teleur, volgend jaar moet je méér geven hoor, of dat Lucien zachtjes stond te hijgen als ze bij hem neerhurkte en zei: wat heb jij daar een lelijke waterloot, Lucien, daar zullen we je eens gauw van afhelpen.”

MistBomenNaamEenzaamHulpeloosTenger
Book:De verliefde akela
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“Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing. It started much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. But this time he had no sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five senses, leaving him in a vacuum. Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom. Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change. A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in the distance—a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they were shredded flags caught in a storm. The tower of thick mist began to move toward him—or he was moving toward it, he couldn’t tell—increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he’d been able to see the distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white. And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his thoughts. Everything else turned into pain.”

MindLostMemoriesStormMistBlurChangingThomasMaze RunnerMazeCycloneGladeGlader
Book:The Maze Runner
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“February Soup by Stewart Stafford The February fog, Turns all into blobs, Orange street lights, To Valentine's Night. When the wind strays, Fog's mantle is grey, Laying misty bouquets, On barren, muddied days. The daffodils of March, Can cheer up Plutarch, Adorned in Kelly green, No sign of foggy screens. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

WinterWeatherMarchFogMistFebruaryFoggySt Patrick S DayDaffodilsWeather Conditions
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“So of the Flanders Moss. It, too, in mist seems to roll on for miles; its heathy surface turns to long waves that paly against the foot of the low range of hills, and beat upon Craigforth as if it were an island in the sea. Through wreathes of steam, the sullen Forth winds in and out between the peat hags, and when a slant of wind leaves it clear for an instant it looks mysterious and dark, as might a stream of quicksilver running down from a mine. When a fish leaps, the sound re-echoes like a bell, as it falls back into the water, and rings spread out till they are lost beneath the banks.”

MistRiver ForthFlanders MossMenteithPeat Hags
Book:A Hatchment
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“Highlanders, driving their "creagh" toward Balquhidder, passed, their moccasin-clad feet leaving as little impress on the mist as they had left in life upon the tussocks of bent-grass. They urged the shadowy cattle with the ponts of their Lochaber axes; and last of all, wrapped in his plaid, his thick hair curling close about his hard-lined features, passed one I knew at once by his great length of arm and red beard, on which the damp hung in a frosty dew, just as it hung upon the coats of the West Highland kyloes that he drove before him on the rode. Though for two hundred years he had slept well in the lone graveyard of the deserted church beside Loch Voil, he seemed to know the road as perfectly as he had known it in his old foraying days. As he passed he moved his target forward and his hand stole to his sword, as if he recognised one of his ancient foes. Then he was swallowed up by the same mist that had protected him so often in his life.”

GhostsMistHighlandersCattle RustlingCattle DrovingThe TrossachsBalquhidderLoch VoilRob Roy Macgregor
Book:Faith
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“When your voice is soft like snow, all the words you pick to show, that even your nothing can be a good rhyme. Like snow, since of water, the snowflakes are made, the water flows soft, yet it cuts right through jade… Words make a path, in Eternal mind-planes, while thoughts turn to actions, eternal, from brains… Our actions are done sometimes meaning without, And someone once wrote, they give dreams here… about. Somewhere in the boundless grey mists dreams sprout…”

WaterDreamsEternalThoughtsActionsNothingMistBoundlessSnowflakesFlows
Book:На чист Български...: Pristine Bulgarian sayings...
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“Across the land a faint blue veil of mist Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist The drooping cherry orchards of October Like mournful pennons hang their shriveling leaves Russet and orange: all things now decay; Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves, And sad the robins pipe at set of day.”

LongSeemsLandAll ThingsBlueSilentWoodsFlamesAutumnDecayHungSoberOrangeVeilsMistPipeOctoberFrostCherriesRobinsOrchard
Book:Collected Poems
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“Eighteen might look at thirty-four through a rising mist of adolescence, but twenty-two would see thirty-eight with discerning clarity.”

LooksTwoMightFourGenerationsTwentiesEightClarityThirtyRisingAdolescenceMistEighteenDiscerningTwenty TwoThirty EightFour Generations
Book:The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald: Novels, Short Stories, Poetry, Articles, Letters, Plays & Screenplays: From the author of The Great Gatsby, The Side of Paradise, Tender Is the Night, The Beautiful and Damned, The Love of the Last Tycoon, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and many other notable works
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