What is it?

What is it?

Riddles are short poems or texts that ask a
question that seems difficult to answer. The following famous riddle by
Catherine Fanshawe is talking about something, but what is it? And why
is this riddle in the EnglishClub.com pronunciation section?Special
note - this riddle uses the following contractions:
'twas = it
was
'tis = it is
'twill = it will
o'er = over
e'en = even'Twas
whispered in Heaven,
'Twas muttered in Hell,
And echo caught
faintly
The sound as it fell;
On the confines of Earth,
'Twas
permitted to rest,
And the depth of the ocean
Its presence
confessed;
'Twill be found in the sphere
When 'tis riven asunder,
Be
seen in the lightning
And heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to
man
With his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth
And awaits
him at death,
Presides o'er his happiness,
Honour and health,
Is
the prop of his house
And the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of
the miser,
'Tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost
By
the prodigal heir;
It begins every hope,
Every wish it must bound,
It
prays with the hermit,
With monarchs is crowned;
Without it the
soldier,
The sailor may roam,
But woe to the wretch
Who expels
it from home!
In the whisper of conscience
'Tis sure to be found,
Nor
e'en in the whirlwind
Of passion is drowned;
'Twill soften the
heart,
But though deaf to the ear,
It will make it acutely
And
instantly hear.
But in short, let it rest
Like a delicate flower,
Oh,
breathe on it softly,
It dies in an hour!

What is it? Answer: the letter H


'Twas
whispered in Heaven,
'Twas muttered in Hell,
And
echo caught faintly
The sound as it fell;
On the
confines of Earth,
'Twas permitted to rest,
And
the depth of the ocean
Its presence confessed;
'Twill
be found in the sphere
When 'tis riven asunder,
Be
seen in the lightning
And heard in the thunder.
'Twas
allotted to man
With his earliest breath,
Attends
him at birth
And awaits him at death,
Presides
o'er his happiness,
Honour and health,
Is
the prop of his house
And the end of his wealth.
In
the heaps of the miser,
'Tis hoarded with care,
But
is sure to be lost
By the prodigal heir;
It
begins every hope,
Every wish it
must bound,
It prays with the hermit,
With monarchs
is crowned;
Without it the soldier,
The sailor may roam,
But
woe to the wretch
Who expels it from home!
In the
whisper of conscience
'Tis sure to be found,
Nor
e'en in the whirlwind
Of passion is drowned;
'Twill
soften the heart,
But though deaf to the ear,
It
will make it acutely
And instantly hear.
But in short,
let it rest
Like a delicate flower,
Oh, breathe on it softly,
It
dies in an hour!