The Sun Travels
by Robert Louis Stevenson

The sun is not a-bed, 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.