Though born with fingers, none can feel. I guard with cloth instead of steel.

Next to me are houses lined up, side by side, I can stretch for miles far, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, Many feet and cars have crossed my way, I'm mostly travelled on by day. What am I?

I am full of holes, yet I can hold a sea. I am soft to the touch, but I fight the grime. I give up all my weight when you squeeze me tight, and grow heavy again when I take a drink. What am I?

I am the quiet master of your inner climate, Tucked deep within the brain to keep you private. I tell you when to seek a bite, When you are thirsty, day or night. I drop your heat when fever burns, And track how every rhythm turns. A tiny gland beneath my floor Receives my orders, then does more.

I rest upon a single eye, Without a strap to hold me high. A golden rim, a single lens, A classic mark of gentlemen. I help you read or scrutinize, Yet cover only half your eyes.