Poem: “Peter” By Richard Wilbur

There at the story’s close
We could not stay awake.
The new wine made us doze.
And not for Jesus’ sake.

I struck the high-priest’s slave
Who came at start of day,
But as a hand might wave
Some bugling fly away.

That hand warm by the flame,
I murmured no, no, no
To mutters of his name
And felt the rooster’s crow

Flail me, yet did not waken
Out of that rocky sleep.
Dungeoned I stood there, shaken
Only enough to weep,

Only enough to fill,
At those predicted jeers,
Through the dropped lashes’ grille
The socket’s moan of tears.