Answer:
My sides are firmly laced about, Yet nothing is within; You'll think my head is strange indeed, Being nothing else but skin.
Four of us are in your field, But our differences keep us at yield, First, a one that is no fool, Though he resembles a gardener’s tool, Next, one difficult to split in two, And a girl once had one as big as her shoe, Then, to the mind, one’s a lovely bonder, And truancy makes it grow fonder, Last, a stem connecting dots of three
Don't do this in the shallow end.
Twigs and spheres and poles and plates. Join and bind to reason make.
I cannot be other than what I am, until the man who made me dies. Power and glory will fall to me finally. Only when he last closes his eyes.
If it’s information you seek, come and see me. If it’s pairs of letters you need, I have consecutively three. What am I?