The Hour-glass

This one's a weird one about hour-glasses and bells

An hour-glass stands up nice and straight

On a flat, polished end,

While bells suspend like carrion

On rods that never bend.

Grains of sand in a transparent bulb,

Mustered in a smooth cone,

Slip through a graceful crystal neck

To toll in silky tones.

But as bells swing and clang, they gulp

From a meridian,

One sideways to the zenith zone,

And fill themselves again.

A bell will always know the time,

But still politely wait

For eager hands to yank their cord,

Even when slightly late.

But a depleted hour-glass sits

Until impatient hands

Can flip it over on its crown

And fill its heads with sand.