My hall is a lattice both fragile and sure. A tapestry trembling, yet death in its lure. A pattern of silence where wanderers stray. One touch of its beauty, and none get away.

Last four, I’m a crime, Last three, I’m an animal As a whole I’m delicious

Hark, thou humble orb that dost hold secrets untold, encased in alabaster, thou art life's own mold. From thee springs the dawn of myriad forms, a fragile fortress in which something small warms

I meet your enraptured gaze in sunless stillness, or maybe I never will at all. I fall from high places to burn up; for admirers, for adversaries. Isolated, or perhaps surrounded. What am I?

I wear no shoes but leave a track, the journey home is never long back. Slow and steady is my game, though racing’s in my fabled name. In rain I glide, in sun I hide, with horns that from my head do slide.