[Written for the Sentinel]

"Lovest thou me?"

Simon's impetuous heart, unchastened yet,Oblivious of his intrusted charge,Could bear no more with inactivity,Could wait no longer by the darkening shoreFor the belovèd Master to appear:I go a fishing! Yea, we go with thee!Thomas the doubter, and Nathanael,Two unnamed, and the sons of Zebedee.Turned with him to their erst forsaken nets,Misgivings in their hearts. And it was night!

Dost love me, Simon? Searching question, this,Thrice spoken on that ne'er forgotten mornWhen, wearied and distressed, the seven friendsHad lifted up their eyes and seen the LordUpon Tiberias' shore, and, on his word,Let down their empty nets and gathered inTheir draft of fish, an hundred fifty-three—They having toiled all night, and nothing caught.

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