A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky,
Atop a tender strand,
Rising from the land,
‘Til killed by maiden’s hand,
Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
What am I?
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky,
Atop a tender strand,
Rising from the land,
'Til killed by maiden's hand.
Perhaps, as a token of love.
Perhaps, to say goodbye.
What is it?
Used to threaten, used to defeat. Sometimes it grows, sometimes it shrinks. Used to conquer, used to protect. It marks your downfall, it marks your success. The true god of war, the creator of mess. What is it?
It's small but larger than a bee,
And agile as a flea.
It hums but does not buzz,
And it's not covered with fuzz.
It is a small collector
Or juicy flower nectar,
What is it?
This was Gollum's final riddle from The Hobbit:
"This thing all things devours;
Bird, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slay king, ruins town,
and beats a mountain down."
A harvest sown and reaped on the same day In an unplowed field, Which increases without growing, Remains whole though it is eaten Within and without, Is useless and yet The staple of nations. What is it?
I make you weak at the worst of all times.
I keep you safe, I keep you fine.
I make your hands sweat, and your heart grow cold,
I visit the weak, but seldom the bold.
What am I?
I do not breathe, but I run and jump.
I do not eat, but I swim and stretch.
I do not drink, but I sleep and stand.
I do not think, but I grow and play.
I do not see, but you see me every day.
What am I?