My first four letters can be hard to swallow My two last letters is an onomatopea when you're hurt My whole is a feathery comfort

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

An iron rod that stirs a fire; A game where luck meets skill. I help to keep the flame alive; You’ll bluff when cards don’t thrill.

My body has no breath, and my neck has no spine. But the hole in my soul sings a sound so divine.

The shape of a sleeve, partial name of a flower, When I call to others, I'm up in a tower. What am I?