I may drift through a melody, echo across a playing field, or rise from a boiling kettle.

Without a voice I tell countless tales, I turn silent thoughts into written word, My mark remains where memory fails, For I am mightier than the sword. What am I?

Three leaves I show in fields of green, but four brings luck rarely seen.

Mirror's muse, it craves the gaze; a hollow throne where pride parades. Dress it up, it takes delight; in endless admiration, it basks in light.

Found in fever, but never in temperature. When this takes effect, the answer becomes clear and direct. Though chance may offer alternatives, only one choice persists.