Many miles away there's a shadow on the door of a cottage on the Shore of a dark Scottish lake.
The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
The mist hung in the air like a prancing unicorn.
There was no way to focus on the movement of the cable. If I looked down at the cable there was water moving everywhere. And if I looked up there was heavy mist blowing in front of my face. So it was a very unique, a weird sensation.
A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
All day, the colors had been those of dusk, mist moving like a water creature across the great flanks of mountains possessed of ocean shadows and depths.
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
The English light is so very subtle, so very soft and misty, that the architecture responded with great delicacy of detail.
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
I like the muted sounds, the shroud of grey, and the silence that comes with fog.
Instead of the bright, blue sky of America, I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald Isle. I breathe, and lo! the chattel becomes a man.
