I am beautiful, up in the sky. I am magical, yet I cannot fly. To people I bring luck, and to some people, riches. The boy at my end does whatever he wishes. What am I?
What does man love more than life, and hate more than death or mortal strife; that which satisfied men want; the poor have, and the rich require; the miser spends, the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?