And still now, at 0745, before Terce. A day or two of this and then-- mark my words-- it will begin to be hot and sticky in the mornings, or else the rain, grey, damp, and drear will return: these more or less perfect mornings are designed, I suppose, to keep us alert to the changeableness of time and of the seasons (whilst being splendid in themselves of course) and grateful to the divine Majesty.
While I'm out in the mornings I lower the blind and leave the window open, allowing the birds that will to browse amongst the peanuts. And they do. Once I return, however, and the blind is raised, and I am seated here, the jays become more cautious: but one or the other of them has been swooping down to get a nut. It stares at me, I try to look at it without moving too much. Eventually, their habitual wariness returns and the sill visits stop. The arrival of the squirrel adds a certain additional whiff of danger.
The livestream from St Mary's at Warrington stopped working after the first couple of sentences of the Epistle and so I listened to Michael Slattery's Dowland until 0450 or so while catching up on 'news'. I couldn't find at YouTube what I wanted-- 'From profound centre of my heart' by Giovanni Croce on the Stile Antico album 'Tune thy Musicke to thy Hart'-- but this caught my eye because the text (Buccináte in Neoménia tuba, in insígni die solemnitátis vestræ) is from Psalm 80 and has been included in the third nocturne of Matins during Corpus Christi. No idea what the kids' arrangement sounds like.
Later, still under a glorious Sun. Another song from that Stile Antico album, this one by Thomas Campion.
Never weather-beaten sail
More willing bent to shore
Never tired pilgrims limbs
Affected slumber more
Than my weary sprite now longs
To fly out of my troubled breast
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly sweetest Lord
And take my soul to rest
Oh come quickly
Ever blooming are the joys
Of heav'ns high paradise
Old age deafs not there our ears
Nor vapour dims our eyes
Glory there the sun outshines
Whose beams the blessed only see
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly glorious Lord
And raise my sprite to Thee
More willing bent to shore
Never tired pilgrims limbs
Affected slumber more
Than my weary sprite now longs
To fly out of my troubled breast
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly sweetest Lord
And take my soul to rest
Oh come quickly
Ever blooming are the joys
Of heav'ns high paradise
Old age deafs not there our ears
Nor vapour dims our eyes
Glory there the sun outshines
Whose beams the blessed only see
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly
Oh come quickly glorious Lord
And raise my sprite to Thee
***
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