Celebrated since ancient times, twice a year I appear. Once when it's Cold and Once when it's Warm. Stones show when I am here.

Historians rarely keep my form, Though scholars know my lines. For I am written without ink, In valleys, peaks, and signs. What am I?

I rise in halls where revelers convene, A vessel shaped for wine or sacred rite. I hold the drink that keeps your conscience clean, What ancient cup are you that meets the light?

A bow but no arrow A string gone unplucked The devil lost me in Georgia I suppose it was bad luck

I cannot be other than what I am, Until the man who made me dies. Power and glory will fall to me, Only when he last closes his eyes.