Without a bridle, or a saddle, across a thing I ride a-straddle. And those I ride, by help of me, though almost blind, are made to see. What am I?

In my bosom a drum does play, a rhythm that guides the night and day. Oh, my dear, it's quite the feat, the steady pace of life's own beat.

Tell me now, and don't be late. What kind of bird can lift the most weight?

I dance with the wind but have no feet, Held by a string, I rise with ease. Cut me loose and I drift away. What am I?

I'm made of rope or woven thread, without a floor, I'm still a bed. I'm a bridge between two trees, a see-through swaying breeze.