Freed from stone, skimmed from food Raised from sand, squeezed from wood Washed from flesh or pressed from fruit Oceans bloodied for this loot

I am full of pasta of many types, though to my small stature I gripe. I am denser than I appear, so stay far and stay clear, no trip’s worth my deadly hype.

I am the green that keeps secrets in cracks; a mitten for rain on forgotten tracks. I thrive by the damp and hide in the shade; grave’s gentle blanket, a forest’s first braid. What am I?

My first part an actor who might cruise away, My second a lady part that might make your day, Put me together and despite my rude name, I'm just a little songbird, really, quite tame.

I represent night, but I am not a darkness. People think of me as celestial.