Robert Louis Stevenson
The Sun 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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Sun Travels by Robert Louis Stevenson )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
Did you read them?
- Coach journey home, Mark Heathcote
- Another Barn Burns (don't call 911), Monk E. Biz
- Confirmation, Yuliy Valenko
- The bee Haiku, Sambanath Denis
- The Slight And Sorry Words, Sambanath Denis
- On A Painting, Sambanath Denis
- The Day Your Mother Kept For You, mary douglas
- Leaving For Okinawa In The Morning, Kyle Schlicher
- Into Your Eyes, Spiritwind Wood
- What You Thought I Thought You Thought, Dexsta Ray