Not being familiar with the literary device that places a woeful, rain drenched bird, widely regarded as vermin by Londoners, at the start of a piece of writing as a means of captivating and enthralling the listener, I'm sticking with the book by Alfred Delp S.J., which contain his Advent reflections.
Rather than battling the drizzly capital, he was arrested after the August '44 bomb plot and was hanged on Candlemas 1945.
For the First Sunday in Advent 1943, he starts by saying that they have lit the first candle, not knowing if they will be alive when they get to the Fourth Sunday; Munich was being bombed heavily at the time.
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