That thing, that is called money;—oh—is it of greater worth
Than the creatures thou hast created?
Not knowing I had uttered a prayer, in the fullness of my heart
I sat in the gloaming, and in time it became quite dark.
I was resting—sitting passive—not even trying to think,
When an angel stood before me! Perhaps ’twas—a dream; who knows?
Who can tell when a dream commences or when we doze,
Or when imagination creates a thing; if practical, why need we care?
To me it was a vision and the angel was most fair,
As she pointed to the stars in the heavens, shining there: