What loses its head in the morning , but gets it back at night?

Beneath the earth where sunlight dies, with stone for walls and barred confines. No open sky, no freedom near, a place of shadows, dread, and fear.

I’m the fireplace’s favorite rug, where flames do dances, snug as a hug. I guard the floor from ember and spark, keeping things safe when the nights are dark. What am I?

I have a body but no soul, A single eye that sees no goal. I drink from silver cylinders to keep my sight, And only wake when you banish the light.

I sound like a pretty party-goer, and I can sound pretty in a tower.