A Quote by Carl Sandburg

The fog comes on little cat feet.  It sits looking over the harbor
    	and city on silent haunches and then moves on. — © Carl Sandburg
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
And I realized that sometimes the greatest triumphs in your life come in on little cat feet and sit on silent haunches and it's up to you to see it before it moves on.
One of my earliest memories as a reader - I don't know how old I was, quite young - was a poem of his, called "Fog," and I remember the first verse, "The fog comes / on little cat feet".
The fog comes on little cat feet.
Tyranny, like fog in the well known poem, often creeps in silently 'on little cat feet.'
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river where it flows among green airs and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.... Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Our little cat comes for a snuggle, then the big cat mews for a stroke and moves a few paces, then another stroke, then another few paces, until we realise he has mewed us into the kitchen where their food bowls are. So they eat, we eat, and then we get on with our days.
I like the fog that creeps over the whole city every night about five, and the warm protective feeling it gives...and lights of San Francisco at night, the fog horn, the bay at dusk and the little flower stands where spring flowers appear before anywhere else in the country...But, most of all, I like the view of the ocean from the Cliff House.
Little self-denials, little honesties, little passing words of sympathy, little nameless acts of kindness, little silent victories over favorite temptations-these are the silent threads of gold which, when woven together, gleam out so brightly in the pattern of life that God approves.
A sudden dart when a little over a hundred feet from the end of the track, or a little over 120 feet from the point at which it rose into the air, ended the flight.
Oh cat, I'd say, or pray: be-ootiful cat! Delicious cat! Exquisite cat! Satiny cat! Cat like a soft owl, cat with paws like moths, jewelled cat, miraculous cat! Cat, cat, cat, cat.
Fear is like a giant fog. It sits on your brain and blocks everything - real feelings, true happiness, real joy. They can't get through that fog. But you lift it, and buddy, you're in for the ride of your life.
You have no control over your cat! You can't say to your cat, "Cat, heel! Stay! Wait! Lie down! Roll over!" 'Cause the cat's just gonna be sitting there going, "Interesting words ... have you finished?" While you're shouting all this to your cat, your dog's next to you, going ... [mimes obeying all commands] "What the hell are you doing? I'm talking to the cat!" "Oh, I'm sorry!"
What if, when this fog scatters and flies upward, the whole rotten, slimey city goes with it, rises with the fog and vanishes like smoke.
Happiness does not come quickly. It is not conferred by any single event, however exciting or comforting or satisfying the event may be. It cannot be purchased, whatever the allure of the next, the newest, the brightest, the best. Happiness, like Carl Sandburg's fog, "comes on little cat feet," often silently, often without our knowing it, too often without our noticing.
Without the fog, London would not be a beautiful city. It is fog that gives it its magnificent amplitude...its regular and massive blocks become grandiose in that mysterious mantle.
Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, when you wake up before the sun comes out. It's just a little while, and then it burns away... Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!