Answer:
Plow and hoe, reap and sow, What soon does every farmer grow?
I cannot be felt, seen or touched. Yet I can be found in everybody. My existence is always in debate. Yet I have my own style of music.
Face with a tree, skin like the sea. A great beast I am. Yet vermin frightens me.
My love, when I gaze on thy beautiful face. Careering along, yet always in place, the thought has often come into my mind. If I ever shall see thy glorious behind.
What surrounds the world, yet dwells within a thimble?
What is always coming but never arrives?