I am a merry creature in pleasant time of year, As in but certain seasons, I sing that you can hear and yet I'm made a by-word, A very perfect mock. Compared to foolish persons and silliest of all folk. What am I?
Four wings I have, which swiftly mount on high, on sturdy pinions, yet I never fly. And though my body often moves around, upon the self-same spot I'm always found, and, like a mother, who breaks her infant's bread. I chew for man before he can be fed. What am I?
I am a tale in children's minds. I keep their secrets and share them inside. I blur their thoughts into fantasies kept Like a canvas of art or a submarine depth. Though an illusion it occurs every night. I give them a fantasy, I give them a fright. Nor good or bad but always night? What am I?