lined with skin as smooth as silk,
with a fountain, crystal clear,
a golden apple doth appear.
There are no doors to this strong hold,
yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new and I'm old,
I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold,
Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found;
Though blind I enlighten; though loose I am bound,
I'm always in black, and I'm always in white;
I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light-
In form to I differ- I'm thick and I'm thin,
I've no flesh and bone, yet I'm covered in skin;
I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute,
I sing without voice; without speaking, confute
I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch;
Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much;
I often die soon, though sometimes I live ages,
and no monarch alive has so many pages.
It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
and empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
ends life, kills laughter.
A box without hinges, key, or lid.
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.
What am I?
I am held at bay by day,
and released by the power of darkness.
I prey on mortal thoughts, whether asleep or wakeful.
I am difficult to fight, the root of suffering.
I am harsh, I am cold,
yet nobody can fight me with their hands,
only with their mind.
What am I?
Alive without breath, as cold as death;
never thirsty, ever drinking,
all in mail never clinking.