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Best Famous Hilaire Belloc Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Hilaire Belloc poems. This is a select list of the best famous Hilaire Belloc poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Hilaire Belloc poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Hilaire Belloc poems.

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Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Night

 Still a mystery,

I can’t figure out;

Race home from work,

Where life is without.
***** I race to see you, And hold you to me; My mind says you’re there, And my heart won’t see.
***** I open the door, It’s still a surprise: You’re not there, And tears fill my eyes.
***** I need someone, Or call on the phone; But nothing breaks the silence, Of these walls made of stone.
***** I punish myself, By refusing to eat: Depression is silent, I hear my heart beat.
***** Where can I go, Or should I stay: Shy to choose, In bed I lay.
***** Time will pass, And the dark sets in; Laying there wishing, I could still touch your skin.
***** Lying there hurting, I wish I could die; Missing you so much, Again I start to cry.
***** Sometimes I wonder, If you even know; The way that I need you, Would you still go.
***** I can’t sleep now, Again a long night; Are you this lonely, Do you share in my fright.
***** Written 09-27-90

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Frog

 Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise "Ugly James,"
Or "Gap-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or "Bill Bandy-knees":
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair; At least so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Elephant

 When people call this beast to mind,
 They marvel more and more
At such a little tail behind,
 So large a trunk before.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Lines For A Christmas Card

 May all my enemies go to hell,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Rebecca

 Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably

A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy banker's little daughter Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater (By name Rebecca Offendort), Was given to this furious sport.
She would deliberately go And slam the door like billy-o! To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart, But only rather rude and wild; She was an aggravating child.
.
.
It happened that a marble bust Of Abraham was standing just Above the door this little lamb Had carefully prepared to slam, And down it came! It knocked her flat! It laid her out! She looked like that.
Her funeral sermon (which was long And followed by a sacred song) Mentioned her virtues, it is true, But dwelt upon her vices too, And showed the deadful end of one Who goes and slams the door for fun.
The children who were brought to hear The awful tale from far and near Were much impressed, and inly swore They never more would slam the door, -- As often they had done before.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

September

 1 The golden-rod is yellow; 
2 The corn is turning brown;
3 The trees in apple orchards
4 With fruit are bending down.
5 The gentian's bluest fringes 6 Are curling in the sun; 7 In dusty pods the milkweed 8 Its hidden silk has spun.
9 The sedges flaunt their harvest, 10 In every meadow nook; 11 And asters by the brook-side 12 Make asters in the brook, 13 From dewy lanes at morning 14 The grapes' sweet odors rise; 15 At noon the roads all flutter 16 With yellow butterflies.
17 By all these lovely tokens 18 September days are here, 19 With summer's best of weather, 20 And autumn's best of cheer.
21 But none of all this beauty 22 Which floods the earth and air 23 Is unto me the secret 24 Which makes September fair.
25 'T is a thing which I remember; 26 To name it thrills me yet: 27 One day of one September 28 I never can forget.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

September

 Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days 
Gleaned by the year in autumn's harvest ways, 
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember, 
Some crimson poppy of a late delight 
Atoning in its splendor for the flight 
Of summer blooms and joys­
This is September.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Lord Lundy

 Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career 

Lord Lundy from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his Mother said, "Lundy! It's time to go to Bed!" He bellowed like a Little Turk.
Or if his father Lord Dunquerque Said "Hi!" in a Commanding Tone, "Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!" Lord Lundy, letting go its tail, Would raise so terrible a wail As moved His Grandpapa the Duke To utter the severe rebuke: "When I, Sir! was a little Boy, An Animal was not a Toy!" His father's Elder Sister, who Was married to a Parvenoo, Confided to Her Husband, Drat! The Miserable, Peevish Brat! Why don't they drown the Little Beast?" Suggestions which, to say the least, Are not what we expect to hear From Daughters of an English Peer.
His Grandmamma, His Mother's Mother, Who had some dignity or other, The Garter, or no matter what, I can't remember all the Lot! Said "Oh! That I were Brisk and Spry To give him that for which to cry!" (An empty wish, alas! For she Was Blind and nearly ninety-three).
The Dear Old Butler thought-but there! I really neither know nor care For what the Dear Old Butler thought! In my opinion, Butlers ought To know their place, and not to play The Old Retainer night and day.
I'm getting tired and so are you, Let's cut the poem into two! Second Part It happened to Lord Lundy then, As happens to so many men: Towards the age of twenty-six, They shoved him into politics; In which profession he commanded The Income that his rank demanded In turn as Secretary for India, the Colonies, and War.
But very soon his friends began To doubt is he were quite the man: Thus if a member rose to say (As members do from day to day), "Arising out of that reply .
.
.
!" Lord Lundy would begin to cry.
A Hint at harmless little jobs Would shake him with convulsive sobs.
While as for Revelations, these Would simply bring him to his knees, And leave him whimpering like a child.
It drove his colleagues raving wild! They let him sink from Post to Post, From fifteen hundred at the most To eight, and barely six--and then To be Curator of Big Ben!.
.
.
And finally there came a Threat To oust him from the Cabinet! The Duke -- his aged grand-sire -- bore The shame till he could bear no more.
He rallied his declining powers, Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers, And bitterly addressed him thus-- "Sir! you have disappointed us! We had intended you to be The next Prime Minister but three: The stocks were sold; the Press was squared: The Middle Class was quite prepared.
But as it is! .
.
.
My language fails! Go out and govern New South Wales!" The Aged Patriot groaned and died: And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Whale

 The Whale that wanders round the Pole
Is not a table fish.
You cannot bake or boil him whole Nor serve him in a dish; But you may cut his blubber up And melt it down for oil.
And so replace the colza bean (A product of the soil).
These facts should all be noted down And ruminated on, By every boy in Oxford town Who wants to be a Don.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Frog The

 Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise "Ugly James,"
Or "Gap-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or "Bill Bandy-knees":
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair; At least so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

On Torture: A Public Singer

 Torture will give a dozen pence or more 
To keep a drab from bawling at his door.
The public taste is quite a different thing- Torture is positively paid to sing.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

October

 Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace, And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled, Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold, And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.
Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry, Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether; Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free, And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather; Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we, Singing old songs and drinking wine together.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Catholic Sun

 Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine,
There’s always laughter and good red wine.
At least I’ve always found it so.
Benedicamus Domino!

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Talking (and Singing) of the Nordic Man

 I

Behold, my child, the Nordic man,
And be as like him, as you can;
His legs are long, his mind is slow,
His hair is lank and made of tow.
II And here we have the Alpine Race: Oh! What a broad and foolish face! His skin is of a dirty yellow.
He is a most unpleasant fellow.
III The most degraded of them all Mediterranean we call.
His hair is crisp, and even curls, And he is saucy with the girls.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Early Morning

 The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.