I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird, flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me, even though there is no cause for grief, and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air.
What am I?
What does man love more than life,
fear more then death or mortal strife,
what the poor have the rich require,
and all contented men desire.
What misers spend and spendthrifts save
and all men carry to the grave?