The hills around Buxton grey mists are all kissing.
The Temple of Solomon\'s shrouded and missing!
And Doves, in the branches of trees, that are cooing,
are winning their sweethearts with whispers and wooing.
The morning is magic before walkers wander;
with peace, pure and plenty; two poet may ponder!
The stream, gently flowing, makes rhyme-making easy;
helps poets, once choosy, too clever or cheesy.
The Day Star arises with burning and blazing.
Now hills are appearing, set free from their hazing.
Soon dullards, with dogs, will depart with the dawning
and peace will be shattered, so poets, take warning!