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.

I roam the woods with mighty paws, A bold symbol of untamed cause. Yet I also dwell in burdened hearts, enduring trials and loss apart. Both fierce and strong, I stand my ground, In nature’s wild or burdens found.

I start so clear and neat, collected by the bucketful where the cold winds meet. I’m Boiled down slow to become golden and sweet, for breakfast I’m the perfect treat.

I’m a hot rumor your body spreads to warn of trouble in its beds. Cool me down but don’t ignore, an unseen fire may still roar. What am I?