I run over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night I sit, never alone. My tongue hangs out, up and to the rear, waiting to be filled in the morning. What am I?
Of no use to one, yet absolute bliss to two.
The small boy gets it for nothing.
The young man has to lie or work for it.
The old man has to buy it.
The baby's right, the lover's privilege, the hypocrite's mask.
To the young girl, faith;
To the married woman, hope;
To the old maid, charity.
What am I?
I am a home of knowledge, both banal and profound.
In grand halls and small homes I can be found.
I am a home for things of many leaves,
but my many residents are not living trees.
What am I?
