Lines For A Christmas Card

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

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

On Vital Statistics

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Lord Lundy

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

The Pelagian Drinking Song

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Ballade To Our Lady Of Czestochowa

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Pidgin

Suggested Poems

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

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.

Hilaire Belloc

A Song For Christmas

    Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging
        Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death!
    Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing!
        Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith!

    Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining--
        Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!"
    Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining,
        Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer!

    Toll for the burying, sexton tolling!
        Sing for the second birth, angel Lark!
    Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling!
        Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark!


II.

    Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow;
        I will give freedom to mine in song!
    Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow;
        I wil...

George MacDonald

Christmas In War-Time

    1

    This is the year that has no Christmas Day,
    Even the little children must be told
    That something sad is happening far away -
    Or, if you needs must play,
    As children must,
    Play softly children, underneath your breath!
    For over our hearts hangs low the shadow of death,
    Those hearts to you mysteriously old,
    Grim grown-up hearts that ponder night and day
    On the straight lists of broken-hearted dead,
    Black narrow lists no tears can wash away,
    Reading in which one cries out here and here
    And falls into a dream upon a name.
    Be happy softly, children, for a woe
    Is on us, a great woe for little fame, -
    Ah! in the old woods leave the mistletoe,
    And leave the holly for another year,

Richard Le Gallienne

The Christmas Letter

    I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better;
    If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter
    To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray,
    And all whose presents come to me from places far away.
    Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her,
    No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter.
    For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well,
    And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell.
    I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her,
    But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas letter,"
    That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't
    Remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I ...

Helen Leah Reed

Christmas

With all the little children, far and near,
God wot! to-day we'll sing a song of cheer!
To rosy lips and eyes, that know not guile,
We one and all will give back smile for smile;
And for the sake of all the small and gay
We will be children also for to-day.

Holly we'll hang, with mistletoe above!
God wot! to-day we'll sing a song of love!
And we will trip on merry heel and toe
With all the fair who lightly come and go;
We will deny the years that lie behind
And say that age is only in the mind.

And to the needy, in whatever place,
God wot! to-day we'll lend a hand of grace;
For where is he who hath not need himself,
Although he dine on silver or on delf?
And we who pass and nod this Christmas Day
May never meet again on life's highway.

Virna Sheard

Decorating The Old Church.

    Gray old gardener, what do you bring?
    "Laurel and ivy and bay,
    With palms for the crowning of a King -
    The morrow is Christmas Day.

    "Holly with thorns, and berries like blood
    On its shiny greenness flung.
    O the piercèd side, and the thorny crown,
    And the cross whereon He hung!

    "The mistletoe, meaning All-healing,
    Hangs close to the holly's thorn,
    Lest we forget that on Christmas Day
    The Healer of Souls was born.

    "Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail
    Let it creep where all may see;
    It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale
    That night in Gethsemane.

    "Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet;
    It speaks with its fragrant breath
    Of manger and cross and a lowly tom...

Jean Blewett