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

The Death And Last Confession Of Wandering Peter

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Ha'nacker Mill

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Charles Augustus Fortescue

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

September

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

Scatter The Silver Ash Like Snow

O, what insect is it
That burrows in the heart and frets
The heart's near nerves,
Leaving its unclean
Stigmata in the mind serene,
Making the proud how mean?

It is not common hate,
Anger has not such deadly cunning
To annul, to chill.
Wild anger is not
So cunning even while so hot;
Hate is too soon forgot.

There is no sword so sharp
With lightnings as the wanton tongue;
Nothing that burns like words--
Bubbling flames that spread
In the now unspiritual head,
By sleepless fevers fed.

O evil words that are
The knives of desolating thought!
And though words be still
The hot eyes yet dart
Burning deaths from this mad heart
Into that torn heart.

O Love, forget, forget,
Put by that glittering edge, ...

John Frederick Freeman

The Scroobious Snake

The Scroobious Snake,
who always wore a Hat on his Head, for
fear he should bite anybody.

Edward Lear