Conception, I deny. I'm born from wounded trees that cry. Entropy’s child, shaped by fire. I twist and yield, yet never die.

I'm either a means of easy containment For things both large and small Or rather a showcase of sportive violence Facing one's pride and thrall

I travel in circles, but never tire, my hum is soft like a whispered choir. I cool you down when I spin around, what am I, hanging or on the ground?

I provide leisure to four gentlemen. Help a Venetian lady, meet her lover now and then. Or an eager pupil to put his glasses on, or even a ship’s captain as he sails on. As the lovers tiff, I say to thee, let bygones be bygones with water under me.

I mark the hours but never sleep, My steady heart is wound to keep. Though hands I have, I hold no art, Yet time itself I hold in part.