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A poem I'm writing in the style of Sir Walter Scott's "The Lady of the Lake". It's only partially done. Tell me what it's about, and you get a million points.
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The morning sun just newly shone
while dawn's crisp chill still pierced the bone,
A valley beneath the hills steep
is wakened from its nightborne sleep.
As bird and beast (save those of night)
Rise up to meet the morning light,
Men hide away inside their beds
and shield from dawn their sleeping heads.
Swallow and lark fly from their throng
to break their fast with food and song,
but few men stir, save some unkempt;
their morning duties their contempt.

Though in his home a stranger stirred
in envy of both beast and bird:
those things that nature favored best
were apt to early break their rest.
But he, a man, had not that boon
to rise and wake and live so soon,
for reason was mankind's reward
to wield the pen, to forge the sword.
'Twas on these thoughts the stranger dwelled,
or would when were his meeting held,
and left he thence through will or force
to ponder, reason, and discource

--- more to come ---