Answer:
I think you live beneath a roof that is upheld by me; I think you seldom walk abroad but my fair form you see; I close you in on every side you very dwelling pave and probably I'll go with you At last into the grave.
You write on me and secrets I can keep. In places never seen. I spin like a top. Though stiff as a board I'm often described like a mop.
What goes through towns and over hills but never moves?
Lighter than what I am made of. More of me is hidden than seen. What am I?
I have lakes but no water forests but no trees and cities but no buildings. What am I?
Runs over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night sits not alone, With long tongue hanging out, Resting at your feet until we go for a walk