You think me gone from earth’s great stage, a relic of a vanished age. Yet look above and you may see, a piece of what became of me.

A refreshing beverage for the three months between winter and summer

I buzz you a lullaby late in the night, then steal just a sip before taking to flight. You swat and you curse, but I often go free. Who’s this little nuisance? It surely is me!

I shed my flame when the wood grows old, A tiny spark in the winter's cold. I do not breathe, yet I glow and fade, A quiet ghost in the ash I've made.

I'm not a blanket, yet I cover the ground; a crystal from heaven, yet I don't make a sound. What am I?