The sparkle of dew when a winter morning awakens, and the famous writer of the road not taken

I sing by day, and whistle by night. I may give a gentle kiss, or a stinging bite. I move without being seen, though my works may be visible. My temper can be volatile, making anything divisible. Whether leaves or a house, no weight is too great. But without me, a large ship in water may just stagnate. What am I?

The thing you must type is within your view, in fact it is part of it

I am a piece of a giant, fallen and bare. I sleep like the dead, without worry or care. I can travel by water, or fuel a warm fire, Or just lay in the yard, fulfilling no desire.

Guiding you toward your destination and yet people seems to seeing me just a mere distraction