Hilaire Belloc Poems

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;
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Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.
I am broken and bored,
Is there any reward
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Child! do not throw this book about!
Refrain from the unholy pleasure
Of cutting all the pictures out!
Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
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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.
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The Dromedary is a cheerful bird:
I cannot say the same about the Kurd.
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How did the party go in Portman Square?
I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there.
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Ill fares the land to hast'ning ills a prey (1)
Where wealth accumulates and men decay.'
But how much more unfortunate are those
Where wealth declines and population grows!
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