Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,

The heroes of old;

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness, and cold.

Robert Browning (1812-1890): Prospice.

If the heart of a man is depress'd with cares,

The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears.

John Gay (1688-1732): The Beggar's Opera. Act ii. Sc. 1.

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures; nor cloud, or speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths;

Beneath her steady ray

The desert circle spreads

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night!

Robert Southey (1774-1843): Thalaba. Book i. Stanza 1.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 2.

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Henry W Longfellow (1807-1882): The Day is done.