he Scorpion

The Scorpion is as black as soot,
He dearly loves to bite;
He is a most unpleasant brute
To find in bed at night.

Hilaire Belloc

Hilaire Belloc was an Anglo-French writer and historian, known for his poetry, essays, and children's books. Born on July 27, 1870, in France, he became a British citizen and was a prominent figure in early 20th-century British literature. Belloc was a devout Catholic, which significantly influenced his writings. He was a close friend of G.K. Chesterton and shared similar views on social and political issues. Belloc passed away on July 16, 1953, leaving behind a rich legacy of literary works.

Hilaire Belloc

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Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

The Frog

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Tarantella

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

On Vital Statistics

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Scorpion

The Scorpion is as black as soot,
He dearly loves to bite;
He is a most unpleasant brute
To find in bed at night.

Hilaire Belloc

The Rattlesnake

        Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate,
        Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait,
        Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate.

        Is 't lure, or warning?    Those small bells may sing
        Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing,
        To lead stark life where mailed death is king;

        Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill,
        Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill,
        And life and death fight equal in her will.

John Charles McNeill

The Man & The Snake

In pity he brought the poor Snake
To be warmed at his fire. A mistake!
For the ungrateful thing
Wife & children would sting.
I have known some as bad as the Snake.

Beware How You Entertain Traitors

Walter Crane

The Snake.

My love and I, the other day,
Within a myrtle arbor lay,
When near us, from a rosy bed,
A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes--
"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
"Who could expect such hidden harm
"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"

Never did grave remark occur
Less à-propos than this from her.

I rose to kill the snake, but she,
Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

"No," said the maiden--and, alas,
    Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it--
"Long as the snake is in the grass,
    "One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:
"But, when its wicked eyes appear,
    "And when we know for what they wink so,
"One must be very simple, dear,
    "To let it wound one--do...

Thomas Moore

The Bat.

I.

Thou dread, uncanny thing,
With fuzzy breast and leathern wing,
    In mad, zigzagging flight,
Notching the dusk, and buffeting
    The black cheeks of the night,
    With grim delight!



II.

What witch's hand unhasps
    Thy keen claw-cornered wings
    From under the barn roof, and flings
Thee forth, with chattering gasps,
    To scud the air,
And nip the lady-bug, and tear
Her children's hearts out unaware?



III.

The glow-worm's glimmer, and the bright,
Sad pulsings of the fire-fly's light,
    Are banquet lights to thee.
O less than bird, and worse than beast,
Thou Devil's self, or brat, at least,
    Grate not thy teeth at me!

James Whitcomb Riley

To the Reader

Stupidity and error, avarice and vice,
possess our spirits, batten on our flesh,
we feed that fond remorse, our guest,
like ragged beggars nourishing their lice.


Our sins are mulish, our repentance vain:
we make certain our confessions pay,
well happily retrace the muddied way,
thinking vile tears will wash away the stain.


Satan Trismegistes rocks the bewitched
Mind, endlessly, on evils pillow, till,
all the precious metal of our wills
vaporised by that knowing alchemist.


The Devil pulls the strings that make us move!
We take delight in such disgusting things:
one step nearer Hell each new day brings
us, void of horror, to the stinking gloom.


We clutch at furtive pleasure as we pass,
like the debauchee wh...

Charles Baudelaire