I bend what’s straight so sight can crawl, Through metal halls with none at all. No windows here, yet crews still cope, What am I?

Take a common measure of milk, add an ‘e’. Sailed after stolen on the seven seas.

I am not a river, but I carry the same, though smaller in size, I still have my fame. What am I?

I am the thing these lines are made, in speech I live, on pages laid. Alone I’m small, in groups I soar, without me, language is no more.

I am driven by longing, yet the lost do not define me.