32 white horses on a red hill. First Chomping, then stomping, then standing still. What am I? | Thinkmad.in

Home » What am I ? » 32 white horses on a red hill. First Chomping, then stomping, then standing still. What am I?

32 white horses on a red hill. First Chomping, then stomping, then standing still. What am I?

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What ends in a ‘w’ but has no end?

One day a alchemist brought a king a bottle holding a strange liquid. The alchemist said, “This liquid I discovered will dissolve anything it touches.” How did the king know that he was lying?

I’m by nature solitary, scarred by spear and wounded by sword, weary of battle. I frequently see the face of war, and fight hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope of help being brought to me in the battle, before I’m eventually done to death. In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords, skilfully forged in the flame by smiths, bite deeply into me. I can but await a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me to discover in the city any of those doctors who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs. The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider; death blows are dealt to me by day and by night. What am I?

‘Tis found in our troubles, ’tis mixed with our pleasures, ‘Tis laid up above with our heavenly treasures; ‘Tis whispered in heaven, and ’tis muttered in hell, And it findeth a place in each sybilline spell; In Paradise nestled, ‘mid Eden’s fair flowers, It has sported with Eve in rose-perfumed bowers; ‘Tis muttered in curses, yet breathed in our prayers; From the path of our duty it tempts us in snares. Deep, deep in our hearts you will find it engraved; Though in misery sunk, yet from sin it is saved. ‘Tis found in the stream that flows on to the ocean; Though in bustle forever, ’tis ne’er in commotion. ‘Tis wafted afar o’er the land in each breath; In the grave ’tis decaying-you’ll find it in death. It is floating away on the broad stream of time, Yet it findeth a place in eternity’s clime. In the legends of nations it holdeth a place; There’s no charm without it to the beautiful face. In thunder you’ll hear it, if closely you listen; In moonbeam and sunbeam forever ’twill glisten. In the dew-drop it sparkles; ’tis found in the forest; It whispers in peace when our need is the sorest. What am I?

They keep secrets locked away. And you pass through them each day. For each one there is a key, They respond to sesame.

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