The sun is not a-bed, when I
At night upon my pillow lie;
Still around 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.
Here is another old poem, and illustration from my beloved, yet tattered book of Children's Verse, which was published around the turn of the century.