A gourmand moth by night, unheard, had guzzled
the words by day enlightened man might write.
That God should tolerate their fate I’m puzzled, -
where words and worm take flight – false fly-by-night !
Naught gnawing moth draws from the fine print nuzzled,
ignorance leaves leaves holy holey ‘spite
the ‘read, mark, inwardly digest’ points causal
on sight on site consumed. Moth, uncontrite,
from feast grows neither plump nor bright, mind muzzled,
blind to magic spells man may in(k)dite.
Moth Riddle
Moððe word fræt. Me þæt þuhte
wrætlicu wyrd, þa ic þæt wundor gefrægn,
þæt se wyrm forswealg wera gied sumes,
þeof in þystro, þrymfæstne cwide
ond þæs strangan staþol. Stælgiest ne wæs
wihte þy gleawra, þe he þam wordum swealg.
A moth ate words. I thought that was quite curious, that a mere worm, a thief in the dark, ate what a man wrote, his brilliant language and its strong foundation. The thief got no wiser for all that he fattened himself on words.
The Exeter Book - Answer to the Riddle 
Bookworm 
Silver trophy winner
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