I'm a good servant but a bad master. The forest feeds me but water kills me.

I pull without hands, yet hold all in place, I bend light and guide each star’s race, Invisible, I shape the cosmic space. What am I?

I’m a phantom doctors once bottled for cure. A bastion of purity, elusive and sure. Philip’s dozen penned in codices of old, Ivan and Francis each a single tale told. The first rumors of me came from the sea. The last one was written by a Beagle.

I leap and bounce with energy bright, or flow in silence, fresh and light. I’m a season, a coil, or water’s gift, In one word, my meanings shift.

First I'm the sun, then the moon, at last the stars. You might find me in a field of wild.