Poem: The Sun's Travels

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. MY BED IS A BOAT.

My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark; She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark.

At night, I go on board and say Good-night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more.

And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.

All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast.