I'm often found in stone, but never in a ring. I wait with patience for a fly, then unroll my spring. I'm a prince in a story, under a spell so deep. But in your garden, after rain, from my damp corner I leap. What am I?

I am soft to the touch yet I move like liquid. I have a tongue that is very rough. Pet me and I may make sound. touch my tail and I might scratch you up. what am I?

The sparkle of dew when a winter morning awakens, and the famous writer of the road not taken

I sing by day, and whistle by night. I may give a gentle kiss, or a stinging bite. I move without being seen, though my works may be visible. My temper can be volatile, making anything divisible. Whether leaves or a house, no weight is too great. But without me, a large ship in water may just stagnate. What am I?

I am a piece of a giant, fallen and bare. I sleep like the dead, without worry or care. I can travel by water, or fuel a warm fire, Or just lay in the yard, fulfilling no desire.