Answer:
I bind it and it walks. I loose it and it stops.
A circle of stones, never in rows. Stacked one on the other, mystery it sows. What is it?
What can be forever wound up but never annoyed?
What is it that no man ever yet did see, which never was, but always is to be?
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?
What did the piece of wood say when he saw the screwdriver and screws approaching?