THESE are the tawny days: your face comes back.
  
The grapes take on purple: the sunsets redden early on the trellis.
  
The bashful mornings hurl gray mist on the stripes of sunrise.
  
Creep, silver on the field, the frost is welcome.
  
Run on, yellow ***** on the hills, and you tawny pumpkin flowers, chasing your lines of orange.
  
Tawny days: and your face again.