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There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough. Algernon Charles Swinburne		Wednesday Dec 03, 2025
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

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A smell of burning fills the startled air The Electrician is no longer there! Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc

Quote Author: Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc

Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc

Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc

Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc (27 July 1870 - 16 July 1953) was a French-born writer who became a naturalised British subject in 1902. He was one of the most prolific writers in England during the early twentieth century.

Recent biographies of Belloc have been written by A. N. Wilson and Joseph Pearce.

Other Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc Quotes

And always keep a hold of nurse, for fear of finding something worse.

Like many of the upper class He liked the sound of broken glass.

The chief defect of Henry King Was chewing little bits of string.

'Oh, my friends, be warned by me, That breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea Are all the human frame requires ... With that the wretched child expires.

A smell of burning fills the startled air The Electrician is no longer there!

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.

Loss and Possession, death and life are one, There falls no shadow where there shines no sun

When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a little tail behind, So large a trunk before.

From quiet homes and first beginnings, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends.

I said to Heart, 'How goes it?' Heart replied: 'Right as a Ribstone Pippin!' But it lied.

It happened that a few weeks later Her aunt was off to the theater To see that interesting play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.

For every time she shouted 'Fire!' They only answered 'Little liar!' And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda, and the house, were burned.

And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.

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.'

Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight, But Roaring Bill (who killed him) thought it right.

Statistics are the triumph of the quantitative method, and the quantitative method is the victory of sterility and death.

Matilda told such dreadful lies, It made one gasp and stretch one's eyes; Her aunt, who, from her earliest youth, Had kept a strict regard for truth, Attempted to believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her.

Child! do not throw this book about Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.

The Devil, having nothing else to do Went off to tempt my Lady Poltagrue. My Lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him.

How slow the shadow creeps: but when 'tis past How fast the shadows fall. How fast! How fast!

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.

When I am dead, I hope it may be said: 'His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.'