The fog slightly appears in the late eve's darkness,

Light as a swan's feather, quiet as a shadow,

Inexorably, it moves forward in stillness;

It will invade the night, strong, invisible foe.

It engulfs bushes, brooms, bracken, briar and moors;

Recovers the whole earth of its white silky veil;

Tears on jagged cliffs and on rocks sharp like razors;

Shades-off near the dark woods; emerges in the dale.

Opaque river of foam which slowly flows downhill,

Blurring delicately the shape of the background,

Its impenetrable blanket reigns entirely until

The spring's fresh wind clears the haze without a sound.

But still when mist is gone, mysteriously it stays,

Never till dawn, dark will lose its mystifying sight,

Through the land for hours, I know murkiness strays,

The fog, that strange companion, silent ghost of the night.