My step is slow, the snow's my breath
I give the ground, a grinding death
My marching makes an end of me
Slain by sun or drowned in sea.
Black we are and much admired,
Men seek us if they are tired,
We tire the horse, comfort man,
Guess this riddle if you can.
Select a pack of riddles and try to solve it in an interesting way.
This riddle appears in the following downloadable PDF files: