Proverbially stuck between the answer and a stick; one is to tempt me, the other is to make sure you submit. Horses love them; in fact, you may use the stick to dangle me, to make them move.

Graceful branches sway, Whispering secrets to wind, Softly bending low.

I am golden and sweet, made by busy bees. You can spread me on bread or stir me into tea. What am I?

A ceiling vast, where dreams take flight, adorned in blue or starry white. Holds the sun and moon in sight, a canvas for the birds' delight.

I am a pillar of stone, smooth and tall, With no windows, doors, or seams at all. I stand in the desert, or deep in space, A silent giant from a hidden place. Ancient or modern, a mystery I bring, A shadow cast without saying a thing.