It was wonderful, when I stopped and looked,

For the sun did not always shine so brightly

Through the two windows, one on each end of the hall—

Whether it was dawn or dusk I could not tell—

Nor did it always burn so beautifully.

The arrows were each their own;

I could see that they had been wrought from different hands;

They were mismatched, and no two had the same points—

Or curves, or blades, or holes, or flames—

As they danced in the light from which they were born.

But still, the joint bound them,

One held against the other, fitting flawlessly

On whichever wooden face they best adorned—

Perhaps the old box would crack and fade one day—

For the moment, they were together.

Already I heard the gears move, the teeth gripping in vain

To each groove, though some had already let go.

The light nor time will meet again—

Beautifully blazing, eternally ending—

The pendulum swings.