When the waters' countenance br Blurs 'twixt glance and second glance; br When our tattered smokes forerun br Ashen 'neath a silvered sun; br When the curtain of the haze br Shuts upon our helpless ways-- br Hear the Channel Fleet at sea: br Libera nos Domine! br br When the engines' bated pulse br Scarcely thrills the nosing hulls; br When the wash along the side br Sounds, a-sudden, magnified; br When the intolerable blast br Marks each blindfold minute passed; br br When the fog-buoy's squattering flight br Guides us 'through the haggard night; br When the warning bugle blows; br When the lettered doorway's close; br When our brittle townships press, br Impotent, on emptiness; br br When the unseen leadsmen lean br Questioning a deep unseen; br When their lessened count they tell br To a bridge invisible; br When the hid and perilous br Cliffs return our cry to us; br br When the treble thickness spread br Swallows up our next-ahead; br When her sirens frightened whine br Shows her sheering out of line; br When--her passage undiscerned-- br We must turn where she has turned, br Hear the Channel Fleet at sea: br Libera nos Domine!br br Rudyard Kiplingbr br