Answer:
Always wax, yet always wane: I melt, succumbed to the flame. Lighting darkness, with fate unblest, I soon devolve to shapeless mess.
Through its wounds, water does run. It once held many but now has none. What is it?
When can someone truthfully tell someone βwell doneβ but think they did a bad job?
Each of these ends in a kettle full of precious metal and the double variety is quite awesome
To cross the water I'm the way, for water I'm above. I touch it not and, truth to say, I neither swim nor move.
Iβm grown from darkness but shine with a pale light. Very round I am and always a lady's delight.