Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
Must have been a bland Sunday, which retreated
From the temerity of old wine,
Haunted by the lonesome refrains of exhausted hymns.
The belfry yawned loosely....
But quiet crept in like leprosy,
Hanging loops on loam-matted hair, black and fringy,
And nursing frets we held
When the wetted guitar strings would not strum....

Have you read her note?
Not the one of Mrs. Dalloway
Nor the one of Between the Acts,
But the one she cringed for —
That banal, invidious act, non-virginal,
Which haunts the church to this day.