Answer:
When can someone truthfully tell someone βwell doneβ but think they did a bad job?
In the night a mountain, in the morning a meadow.
A girl was ten on her last birthday, and will be twelve on her next birthday. How is this possible?
It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills And empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, Ends life, kills laughter.
What is it which builds things up? Lays mountains low? Dries up lakes, and makes things grow? Cares not a whim about your passing? And is like few other things, because it is everlasting?
I can only be played on a windy day