I grow without a root or seed, from dripping water slowed by freeze. I hang like glass from roof or stone, what am I, winter grown?

Born grey, but pink when you cook me. I'm kinda like a bug from the deep sea. Still, you eat me with glee. A small, scurrying water delicacy.

A lion, a puppy, a castle in the sky. I can be anything, serenely floating by. White, grey, sometimes painted pink. What am I, do you think?

With antlers wide and legs so long, in northern woods is where I belong.

A fair maiden is described as this, Cold cutting to the heart, yet full of bliss Falling gently through the air, This word can’t be seen everywhere What am I?