A Quote by Henry David Thoreau

Live free, child of the mist,- and with respect to knowledge we are allchildren of the mist. — © Henry David Thoreau
Live free, child of the mist,- and with respect to knowledge we are allchildren of the mist.
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
Enveloped in a common mist, we seem to walk in clearness ourselves, and behold only the mist that enshrouds others.
I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book.
The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on.
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
It was a gloomy prospect, and all that she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away, she should see something else.
The brooks flow to their lover, the sea, and the flowers smile at the object of their passion, the light. The mist rolls down to its beloved, the valley. And I? In me is what brooks do not know, what flowers do not hear, what the mist does not apprehend. You see me alone in my love, solitary in my yearning.
The Osage have this lovely phrase: 'Travelers in the Mist.' It was the term for part of an Osage clan that would take the lead whenever the tribe was venturing into unfamiliar realms. And, in a way, we are all travelers in the mist. The challenge is that, as writers, we sometimes want to ignore this murkiness, or we want to write around it.
Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.
Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard.
And we are not mountaintop sages who can live by consuming mist.
Nothing that is can pause or stay; / The moon will wax, the moon will wane, / The mist and cloud will turn to rain, / The rain to mist and cloud again, / Tomorrow be today.
I wanted to create something that would live on forever, beyond my time, and out of that came Cashmere Mist.
A mist. A great mist. It covered the entire kingdom. And everyone in it - the good people and the not so good, the young people and the not-so-young, and even Briar Rose's mother and father fell asleep. Everyone slept: lords and ladies, teacher and tummlers, dogs and doves, rabbits and rabbitzen and all kinds of citizens. So fast asleep they were, they were not able to wake up for a hundred years.
remember you must live. remember you most love. remainder you mist leaf.
I certainly don't sit down and plan a book out before I write it. There's a phrase I use called "The Valley Full of Clouds." Writing a novel is as if you are going off on a journey across a valley. The valley is full of mist, but you can see the top of a tree here and the top of another tree over there. And with any luck you can see the other side of the valley. But you cannot see down into the mist. Nevertheless, you head for the first tree.
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