Answer:
Half-way up the hill, I see you at last, lying beneath me with your sounds and sights. A city in the twilight, dim and vast, with smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.
Take one out and scratch my head I am now black but once was red.
All about, but cannot be seen, Can be captured, cannot be held, No throat, but can be heard. Who am I?
A man who was outside in the rain without an umbrella or hat didn’t get a single hair on his head wet. Why?
Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.
Dark, feathery, and popular in Baltimore and fantasy books.