By James Dillet Freeman

November is not bare.
I think we can see more
Through winter's clearer air
Than we could see before.

The mists of green are gone
And flower-clouds' pink-and-white,
But everywhere upon
The earth a soft still light

Lies like Christ's mantle thrown,
A splendor like a king's
On naked tree and stone
And all small growing things

That have the faith to start
Up, fearless of winter's length.
Now I see to the heart—
And, oh, the heart is strength!