If you have ever set eyes on a recording of Vaughan Williams's Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, chances are that the cover art showed an English country scene, a portrait of the composer or some such thing. You'll probably never find a cover with anything sexual about it. There are more than a few music lovers who would heatedly dismiss the notion that there is anything erotic about this masterwork, but the very heat of their reaction may be more eloquent than the import of their words.

Yes, yes, the Fantasia conjures up feelings and images in all of us that are not erotic in themselves. I often fancy myself in an English country cathedral when I hear the music. Gentle, shaded pastures surround it and its vaulted windows admit gentle shafts of sunlight. It is a good place to be. Some listeners claim to hear "the soul, the very soil of England" in the music's ethereal harmonies. I've never been to the land of Vaughan Williams and Thomas Tallis, yet I think I hear something of the sort too.

But that's not all I hear.

Have you ever found the thought of your beloved transcendently joyful? Has the thought of making love with her or him, the sight of her body, the sound of his voice seemed indescribably wondrous? Have you found the sacredness of a sexual union beyond the power of words to express? Poor of heart are they who have never had such feelings, and the soul of someone who can write music that reflects them must be rich indeed.

Lovers looking for a raunchy beat to stimulate in their copulatory cadence will be disappointed. The rhythms of the Fantasia are subtle and unsensational. Yet there is a narrative sense to the music, the events of which correspond beautifully to love's successive waves of interest, arousal, ecstasy and tender satisfaction. And the tone of the music ranges from reverence and wonder to boundless rapture. Fantasia, of course, simply means "fantasy", and the name itself is not without a glimmer of erotic appeal.

Five ethereal chords establish the sense of the sacred space in which my lover and I come together. Then, beneath a sustained note high in the violins, we hear the voice of the beloved. At first it is low and solemn, plucked on the cellos and bases, but it is taken up and amplified into an intimation of ecstasy almost at once by the full orchestra. It is as though my beloved and I are so full of the wonder of each other that we scarcely dare act, nor need to. The emotions become calmer, but are punctuated by shudders of desire. Our fervour bursts forth again and again. Then we are quiet.

A solo viola enunciates a reverent motif as I begin to undress my beloved, then there is another outburst followed by a solo violin as she begins undressing me and tenderly exploring what she uncovers. But the intensity of our feeling mounts inexorably and soon we are embracing with passion, tongues, breath, eyes and skin ablaze with holy fire. And then we are one, I in her and she all about me and we lose ourselves in the transcendent solemnity of our orgasms as the full orchestra reaches a climax of harmonic fulfillment. After, we are quiet, still, sated, but only for a moment.

I withdraw just a little. We each quake with the aftermath of our lovemaking. Then the violin is back expressing my partner's unquenched love and the cello beneath it speaks of my endless adoration. Memories of the joy and wonder we have had together fill us. We smile serenely at one another and, with a rapturous sigh, we go to sleep, face to face, breast to breast, legs braided together, our souls unified and our hearts sanctified.

Technically, how does Vaughan Williams create the otherworldly sound we hear in the Fantasia? Two things account for much of the effect. First, his orchestra, consisting entirely of strings, is divided into three parts: a large ensemble, typically around 40 players; a smaller one of perhaps a dozen; and a string quartet. Thus he is able to produce all kinds of contrasts that contribute to an ambience of cosmic solemnity and of tender intimacy at the same time. It is as though the orchestra were a kind of church organ (in fact it imitates an organ in one spot) capable of infinite subtlety and sensuality. And then there's the sense of timeless mystery the composer obtains with his use of the Phrygian mode. This is a kind of tonality that is neither major nor minor, having its roots in the distant ages before our modern notions of melody and harmony were established.

There are many fine recordings of the Fantasia. My favourite, and the one in which the erotic dimension is most discernable, is by William Broughton and the English String Orchestra (on the late, lamented Nimbus label). There are one or two versions that should be avoided, however. Neville Marriner and the Academy or St-Martin-in-the-Fields deliver a precise account of the score that is about as erotic as the hourly quotes from the London Currency Exchange. There is an old recording by Stokowski that turns up sometimes, and it too should be avoided on account of its molasses-like lubricity.

Otherwise, almost any recording may put you in mind of the exaltation we feel in spiritual or carnal ecstasy. You may even come to believe, as I do, that the two are really one.

Everyone listening to the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis in the right spirit will imagine his or her own erotic scenario. Yours may be different from mine, perhaps even nicer, but I will say this: As with all the fantasies in the series, the practical application of this one has been rigorously tested and evaluated by our Philharmonic Phantasies Laboratories.

This article originally appeared in Clean Sheets.