You sent me flowers when I lay ill. Their tender beauty seemed to fill My room with all earth's loveliness. I thought my life rich heretofore When busy hand and teeming brain Gave me no pause to stay and pore Over God's wonders wrought so plain. In flower and leave on every hand. Ah me! I did not understand How poor in very truth I was until my weakness gave me pause, Till I lay idle, lonely, ill, And knew myself rich, rich indeed, Rich beyond all desert or meed, Showered by the infinite largesse Of sweet and subtle loveliness Revealed me hour by hour in these Half-dozen delicate irises.