THE SUN'S TRAVELS

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.

Smooth it slides upon its travel, Here a wimple, there a gleam— O the clean gravel! O the smooth stream! Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, Paven pools as clear as air— How a child wishes To live down there!

We can see our colored faces Floating on the shaken pool Down in cool places, Dim and very cool; Till a wind or water wrinkle, Dipping marten, plumping trout, Spreads in a twinkle And blots all out. See the rings pursue each other; All below grows black as night, Just as if mother Had blown out the light! Patience, children, just a minute— See the spreading circles die; The stream and all in it Will clear by-and-by.