Marvel of my day

"Lord, now lettest Thou thy servant depart in peace," sang Eli and, without I hope being blasphemous, I have a milder version of the same sense of deep satisfaction.

For Lo! the moth I have been hoping for more than anything except one of the Clifden Nonpareils which have made a startlingly large number of appearances in these parts this autumn, flew in last night.

It is the ravishing, and ravishingly-named Merveille du Jour, one of the most inspired of the many lovely coinings of the literary and artistic coterie - including the famous clown Joey Grimaldi and many talented 18th century painters - who named our butterflies and moths. I'm glad they did, because the mighty Linnaeus gave the moth the unmemorable and possibly misleading name of Griposia aprilina.

I think that I can leave the pictures to tell the story other than to say that it was a near miss. The moth was outside the trap and you may be able to see from dimpled grass in the second photograph below how nearly I came to treading on it. Luckily, I have learned to give the lamp's surroundings a good inspection before turning to the eggboxes themselves.

Hope you can see the moth, a bit left of centre

I shall now go an have my shower, during which I will sing one of my favourite hymns, Penny being a hundred miles away on her Women's Walking Weekend. Here are the words:

Hushed was the evening hymn,

The temple courts were dark;

The lamp was burning dim

Before the sacred ark;

When suddenly a voice divine

Rang through the silence of the shrine.

The old man, meek and mild,

The priest of Israel, slept;

His watch the temple child,

The little Levite, kept;

And what from Eli’s sense was sealed

The Lord to Hannah’s son revealed.

O give me Samuel’s ear,

The open ear, O Lord,

Alive and quick to hear

Each whisper of Thy Word,

Like him to answer at Thy call,

And to obey Thee first of all.

O give me Samuel’s heart,

A lowly heart, that waits

Where in Thy house Thou art,

Or watches at Thy gates;

By day and night, a heart that still

Moves at the breathing of Thy will.

O give me Samuel’s mind,

A sweet unmurm’ring faith,

Obedient and resigned

To Thee in life and death,

That I may read with child like eyes

Truths that are hidden from the wise.

He's gone all holy this morning

There's a plinky-plonky version of the tune here if you'd like to rock along. Good last lines, eh? Another more secular moral to this morning's events may be the old proverb: 'Everything comes to him who waits." But I worry about this as a possible invitation to lethargy and prefer Cromwell's typically robust: "We must not wait for the iron to heat but must make it hot by striking."

Much to mull on. The rest of the catch tomorrow after P's joyous return.