my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

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...

Mist of the lust-for-life obnubilates the mirror, romance is reflected on.

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

Over the vistas broke a cold gray light, such as seen in those false dawns that are neither night nor true morning, when the world and all its contents seem but shapes of mist, formed...

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

I wish I had a body like fog or mist, and could move mysteriously. But genetics being what they are, I’m stuck with a body like haze.

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

I’d rather fake my own fog, than fake a steamy love scene. Can I interest you in some mist? It’s homemade.

He heard her in his heart – whispering from the mist

I feel like I’m walking around in a fog. Orafoura doesn’t call me Mr. Mist for nothing.

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

Trying to remember a dream from a decade ago is like trying to catch fog in a coffee filter. I could subsist on morning mist.

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.

The moveless man moves along like the mist. The mist doesn’t hide, but all things are hidden in it—including the fog. Love is the only thing that moves the moveless man, and he hasn’t the...

You do see me crossing the meadowstiff and dead from the mist?I long for that home,that home I’ve never had,and without any hopethat I’ll ever be able to reach it.For such a home, never touched,I...

My love will not wither awayLike the momentous beauty of a Rose,But I am the weed, no matter how much you pluck awayIt sprouts again and grows…”-(Precious Love)

I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp...

At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.

some poems frothand foam and rise…out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

The night was white-blind with fog, and Kate staggered over every stone and stumbled in every puddle, but she pushed on as fast as she could.

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

Kelsier smiled. ‘It means that you, Vin, are a very special person. You have a power that most high noblemen envy. It is a power that, had you been born an aristocrat, would have made...

Myth, mist, and mystery all add to the illusion of love. If you need me I’ll be by the fog machine wearing a tunic and writing an epic poem in Greek.