The sentinel
Spied from his high cliff-
towered citadel
The leaping flash of guns; but
ere the roar
Sprang from its den on the
dim Asian shore,
He blew a trumpet. Then, like
burrowing moles,
Dim forms below dashed
headlong to their holes,
The while that hurtling iron
crossed the sea,
And fifteen seconds seemed
eternity. . . .
(Geoffrey Dearmer)
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