I rise and fall in the sea, travel toward the shore, and sometimes crash. What am I?

I hold your shirts, I hold your sheets, out in the sun and summer breeze. With little wooden pins I grip, to stop your laundry from a slip. What am I?

I rise without walking, yet set without rest, I burn without breathing and glow at your behest. I paint time in shadows on stone and on sand, But never once touch what I warm with my hand. I hide from your eyes when I stand overhead, Yet rule every color when evening is red. I’m one among billions, yet first in your sight, What am I, that you circle to borrow my light?

Where you would sink, I simply wander. Where you would struggle, I simply breathe.

I pass through glass, yet focused I may leave a scar. Where I arrive, perfect darkness cannot last. I gather in rays and beams, while years that bear my name measure paths among the stars.