Hilaire Belloc (1870 – 1953)
British writer and poet, known chiefly for his essays and children's books; he was sometimes referred to by the nickname "Old Thunder".
Be content to remember that those who can make omelettes properly can do nothing else.
When friendship disappears then there is a space left open to that awful loneliness of the outside which is like the cold of space between the planets. It is an air in which men perish utterly. Absolute dereliction is the death of the soul.
From quiet homes and first beginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends.
It was my shame, and now it is my boast,
That I have loved you rather more than most.
The Llama is a wooly sort of fleecy hairy goat,
With an indolent expression and an undulating throat
Like an unsuccessful literary man.
It is the best of all trades, to make songs, and the second best to sing them.
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
"There is no Cure for this Disease."
[N]othing is worthwhile on this unhappy earth except the fulfilment of a man's desire.
The moment a man talks to his fellows he begins to lie.
Of courtesy it is much less
Than courage of heart or holiness
Yet in my walks it seems to me
That the Grace of God is in courtesy.
I recognised that I was (and I confessed) in that attitude of the mind wherein men admit mortality; something had already passed from me—I mean that fresh and vigorous morning of the eyes wherein the beauty of this land had been reflected as in a tiny mirror of burnished silver. Youth was gone out apart; it was loved and regretted, and therefore no lomger possessed.
I shoot the Hippopotamus
With bullets made of platinum,
Because if I use leaden ones
His hide is sure to flatten 'em.
I have wandered all my life, and I have also traveled; the difference between the two being this, that we wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.
Now the Faith is old and the Devil is bold,
Exceedingly bold indeed;
And the masses of doubt that are floating about
Would smother a mortal creed.
But we that sit in a sturdy youth,
And still can drink strong ale,
Oh—let us put it away to infallible truth,
That always shall prevail.
?[semi-chorus:]
And thank the Lord
For the temporal sword,
And howling heretics too;
And all good things
Our Christendom brings,
But especially barley brew!
By thee do seers the inward light discern;
By thee the statue lives, the Gods return.
I'm tired of Love; I'm still more tired of Rhyme.
But money gives me pleasure all the time.
How slow the Shadow creeps: but when 'tis past,
How fast the Shadows fall. How fast! How fast!
Of all fatiguing, futile, empty trades, the worst, I suppose, is writing about writing.
There is nothing at all that remains: nor any house; nor any castle, however strong; nor any love, however tender and sound; nor any comradeship among men, however hardy. Nothing remains but the things of which I will not speak, because we have spoken enough of them already during these four days. But I who am old will give you advice, which is this—to consider chiefly from now onwards those permanent things which are, as it were, the shores of this age and the harbours of our glittering and pleasant but dangerous and wholly changeful sea.