Listless

Their hearts shriveled in their bodies, their hands fell listless at their sides.

And the listless life of an ink-stained hack….

Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed; While his bow’d head seem’d list’ning to the Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all sense of life.

Yet the men who sat in them seemed so listless and world-weary that they might have been asleep.

She looked pale and rather listless, a startling contrast to the Frannie who had sung the National Anthem with such heart a few hours earlier.

He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.

With Henrika so often closed behind the bed drapes, Clara is listless and irksome.

But the chill blood that creeps within my veins, And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains, And a soul conscious of its own decay, Have forc’d me to refuse imperial sway.

Her voice, as she reopened the hall door, dropped even further into uselessness, listless and barren.

This was Derry's Old Cape, where elderly cars with wired-up mufflers and cracked windshields wore bumper-stickers saying things like DON'T BLAME ME I VOTED FOR PEROT and ALL TIIL, WAY with THE N.R.A where no house was complete without at least one Fisher-Price Big Wheel trike standing on the listless lawn, where girls were stepping dynamite at sixteen and all too often dull-eyed, fat-bottomed mothers of three at twenty-four.

But, you see, Jo wasn’t a heroine; she was only a struggling human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested.

Her long, slender body reposed in an attitude of listless and indolent grace.

how oft through summer hours, Long listless summer hours when the noon Being enamoured of a damask rose Forgets to journey westward, till the moon The pale usurper of its tribute grows From a thin sickle to a silver shield And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight, At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come Almost before the blackbird finds a mate And overstay the swallow, and the hum Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves, Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves, And through their unreal woes and mimic pain Wept for myself, and so was purified, And in their simple mirth grew glad again; For as I sailed upon that pictured tide The strength and splendour of the storm was mine Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine, The little laugh of water falling down Is not so musical, the clammy gold Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town Has less of sweetness in it, and the old Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless.

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged.

It is, in the imagination of combat’s fans, the divinely listless loveplay that follows the orgasm of victory.

For neither Death nor Change comes near us, And all listless hours fear us, And we fear no dawning morrow, Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.” The dance wound through the windless woods: The ever-summered solitudes; Until the tossing arms grew still Upon the woody central hill; And, gathered in a panting band, We flung on high each waving hand, And sang unto the starry broods.

The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection.

Atkinson was leaning against a tree with a listless face; Quinton’s wife was still at her window; the doctor had gone strolling round the end of the conservatory; they could see his cigar like a will-o’-the-wisp; and the fakir still sat rigid and yet rocking, while the trees above him began to rock and almost to roar.

Yossarian continued walking away at the same listless, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets.

Though now unfit an active war to wage, Heavy with cumbrous arms, stiff with cold age, His listless limbs unable for the course, In standing fight he yet maintains his force; Till faint with labour, and by foes repell'd, His tired slow steps he drags from off the field.