Biography of Eleanor Farjeon
Eleanor Farjeon (13 February 1881 – 5 June 1965) was an English author of children's stories and plays, poetry, biography, history and satire. Many of her works had charming illustrations by Edward Ardizzone. Some of her correspondence has also been published. She won many literary awards and the Eleanor Farjeon Award for children's literature is presented annually in her memory by the Children's Book Circle, a society of publishers. She was the sister of the thriller writer Joseph Jefferson Farjeon.
Eleanor Farjeon Poems
Cats Sleep Anywhere
Cats sleep, anywhere, Any table, any chair Top of piano, window-ledge, In the middle, on the edge, Open drawer, empty shoe, Anybody's lap will do, Fitted in a cardboard box, In the cupboard, with your frocks- Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere.
I quarreled with my brother, I don't know what about, One thing led to another And somehow we fell out.
The Sounds In The Evening
The sounds in the evening Go all through the house, The click of the clock
Morning Has Broken
Morning has broken, Like the first morning, Blackbird has spoken
What is Poetry? Who knows? Not a rose, but the scent of the rose; Not the sky, but the light in the sky;
In the last letter that I had from France You thanked me for the silver Easter egg Which I had hidden in the box of apples
He's nothing much but fur And two round eyes of blue, He has a giant purr And a midget mew.
Bad King John
John, John, bad King John Shamed the throne that he sat on; Not a scruple, not a straw,
Cat! Atter her, atter her, Sleeky flatterer, Spitfire chatterer, Scatter her, scatter her
I am as awful as my brother War, I am the sudden silence after clamour. I am the face that shows the seamy scar When blood and frenzy has lost its glamour.
Count the white horses you meet on the way, Count the white horses, child day after day, Keep a wish ready for wishing - if you Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.
What worlds of wonder are our books! As one opens them and looks, New ideas and people rise In our fancies and our eyes.
There Isn'T Time
There isn't time, there isn't time To do the things I want to do, With all the mountain-tops to climb,
It Was Long Ago
I'll tell you, shall I, something I remember? Something that still means a great deal to me. It was long ago.
Birds in the air,
Beasts in the byre,
Straw for thy bed,
Stars for thy fire,
Thy body for bread,
Thy Blood for the wine,
A thorn for thy crown,
A cross for thy sign.