Still, these are not Christian monopolies. What’s Faith but power stripped of its ornaments, Grants, title-deeds and such like accidentals; Force won by disentangling from the mind All hampering ties of luxury and tradition, Possessions, loyalties and hobby-horses? Cast all these overboard, and Faith is left, Faith potent through its prayer to miracles, Whether in name of Jesus or Jim Crow. Prayer: Rachel seems to think the collects prayer, And Mother Superior, I make no doubt, Will teach her scores of neatly turned devotions Couched in diminutives and pastoral terms, (Lord, how I hate the _literary_ prayer), Little white lambs indeed—O baa baa black sheep Have you any wool?—And Rachel in return Flushing with shame impetuously confesses, And holds half back, but crafty eyes are watching To drag all out, so Rachel has to tell How on the river bank one morning early The water was so clear, the sun so warm, She kissed me suddenly and was kissed by me— Lip kisses, that was all, and fingers clasped. Mother Superior then demanding further Will cross-examine her on how and why. “To tell it now will mortify the passion, Then when you make your general confession To Father James, your mind will have found peace.” (A good excuse) “What then were your sensations, The physical joy, tell me, my erring lamb! Tell me, I beg, but as the sin was pleasant So must confession of the sin be pain....” “Tis pity she’s a whore”. Rachel told all. _Whore_, traitress to the secret rites of love, Publisher of the not-communicable. If she refused the vows? If her heart changed? Rachel and I? This meek ex-novice rifled Of her love-secrets? medals and images Sewn in her skirts, Birmingham images From the totem-factory, niched in her heart? No, Love is fusion of Prayer, and prayer must be The flash of faith, unformulated words Demanding an accomplishment of Love With noise of thunder, against circumstance, And Rachel forfeits there all power to love.