Sometimes I run quick, other times slower, Can give you a flick, but I'm also a flower.

I’m mostly air, with something thin, A little water stretched like skin. With a breath I'm born, and off I glide, Do you wish you could take a ride? Children cheer; my life is few. Hello, hello! ... and then... Adieu.

This is a thorny one. Pronounce it one way and it's a wine. Another way and it's handed to racers when they've won. Juliet described it's smell as sweet, almost divine.

Walt Whitman said it best: keep your face to the sun, and this will follow. Only one figure is known to have lost it, though he chased it. We all have one, and sometimes more than one, at the same time, but we also have none.

What glides gracefully in a lake? Soaring and swimming it’s own ballet. Long and slender, but not a goose. A tragic dance, no happy end.