I am what men love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife, what dead men have and rich require. I'm what contented men desire.

I bind without rope, I weigh nothing, yet I crush. I follow you into every choice, But vanish when you know too much.

I live where logic dares not tread, a shadow-play inside your head. I vanish with dawn, like mist in the beam; I am what night invents from scheme.

I am a puzzle, a riddle, a test, With no easy answer, I'm hard to digest. A thinker’s delight, a solver’s despair, What am I, elusive, in the mind's snare?

What is so fragile it already breaks when you just say it's name?