The Sun’s Travels by Robert Louis Stevenson

The sun is not abed, when I

At night upon my pillow lie;

Still round the earth his way he takes,

And morning after morning makes.

While here at home, in shining day,

We round the sunny garden play.

Each little Indian sleepy-head

Is being kissed and put to bed.

And when at eve I rise from tea,

Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea,

And all the children in the West

Are getting up and being dressed.