Answer:
Often held but never touched. Always wet but never rusts. Often bits but seldom bit. To use it well you must have wit.
Some live in me, some live on. And some shave me to stride upon. I rarely leave my native land. Until my death I always stand. High and low I may be found. Both above and below ground.
Through its wounds, water does run. It once held many but now has none. What is it?
Large as a mountain, small as a pea, Endlessly swimming in a water-less sea.
What surrounds the world, yet dwells within a thimble?
People take me on walks and I run and have fun. What am I?