Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

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.

Search for the best famous Hilaire Belloc poems, articles about Hilaire Belloc poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Hilaire Belloc poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
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 |

Lines to a Don

 Remote and ineffectual Don
That dared attack my Chesterton,
With that poor weapon, half-impelled,
Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,
Unworthy for a tilt with men--
Your quavering and corroded pen;
Don poor at Bed and worse at Table,
Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable;
Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes,
Don nervous, Don of crudities;
Don clerical, Don ordinary,
Don self-absorbed and solitary;
Don here-and-there, Don epileptic;
Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic;
Don middle-class, Don sycophantic,
Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic;
Don hypocritical, Don bad,
Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad;
Don (since a man must make and end),
Don that shall never be my friend.
Don different from those regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze, Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply bellying gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable! Dons of Might! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep--and learning of a sort.
Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand.
Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain-- The horizon of my memories-- Like large and comfortable trees.
Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame.
Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don--Don past all bearing.
Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil, Don that serves the devil.
Don ugly--that makes fifty lines.
There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines.
I never cut; I far prefer to end it--but Believe me I shall soon return.
My fires are banked, but still they burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Tiger The

 The tiger, on the other hand,
Is kittenish and mild,
And makes a pretty playfellow
For any little child.
And mothers of large families (Who claim to common sense) Will find a tiger well repays The trouble and expense.

More great poems below...

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Talking (and Singing) of the Nordic Man


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 |

Lines For A Christmas Card

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

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

On the Little God

 Of all the gods that gave me all their glories 
To-day there deigns to walk with me but one.
I lead him by the hand and tell him stories.
It is the Queen of Cyprus' little son.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |


 Beauty has a tarnished dress, 
And a patchwork cloak of cloth 
Dipped deep in mournfulness, 
Striped like a moth.
Wet grass where it trails Dyes it green along the hem; She has seven silver veils With cracked bells on them.
She is tired of all these-- Grey gauze, translucent lawn; The broad cloak of Herakles.
Is tangled flame and fawn.
Water and light are wearing thin: She has drawn above her head The warm enormous lion skin Rough red and gold.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |


 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 |


 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 |

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 |


 Who played with a Loaded Gun, and, on missing his Sister was reprimanded by his Father.
Young Algernon, the Doctor's Son, Was playing with a Loaded Gun.
He pointed it towards his Sister, Aimed very carefully, but Missed her! His Father, who was standing near, The Loud Explosion chanced to Hear, And reprimanded Algernon For playing with a Loaded Gun.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Heretics All

 Heretics all, whoever you may be,
In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea,
You never shall have good words from me.
Caritas non conturbat me.
But Catholic men that live upon wine Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine; Wherever I travel I find it so, Benedicamus Domino.
On childing women that are forelorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn: That is on all that ever were born, Miserere Domine.
To my poor self on my deathbed, And all my dear companions dead, Because of the love that I bore them, Dona Eis Requiem.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

Hanacker Mill

 Sally is gone that was so kindly,
Sally is gone from Ha'nacker Hill
And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly;
And ever since then the clapper is still.
And the sweeps have fallen from Ha'nacker Mill.
Ha'nacker Hill is in Desolation: Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation, Spirits that loved her calling aloud, Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.
Spirits that call and no one answers -- Ha'nacker's down and England's done.
Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers, And never a ploughman under the Sun: Never a ploughman.
Never a one.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Yak

 As a friend to the children
 Commend me the Yak.
You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.
The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know! Then tell you papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich He will buy you the creature— or else he will not.
(I cannot be positive which.

Written by Hilaire Belloc |

The Pacifist

 Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight,
But Roaring Bill (who killed him) thought it right.