We lived in a Victorian house in Long Branch, New Jersey, in the '60s. The previous owner had been an anthropologist, and there were aborigine shields and weapons in the basement. There was a coal bin, stained glass, beautiful carved wood, a grape arbor, apple trees and a raspberry patch. A mile from the ocean, it was a great place to be a kid.

We didn't have a TV. My mother read to us, an hour or so a night. She read the Chronicles of Narnia, The Little Grey Men, The Peloponnesian Wars, and the Iliad 5 times. When I was seven I asked my mother if people were still fighting wars. I was shocked, when she told me they were. I am still shocked, in my better moments, that people can't find a better way to solve problems.

Down the green hill, to the cold stream
Many men still tumble yet Falling from the yellow sunbeam
All too eager to forget

Morning's gone, the desk is cluttered
Sunshine screaming off the snow
The door is shut, the window shuttered
Listen to the silence crow

Hidden from the dreary echo
Hidden from the whooping cough
Babies cower in the cradle
From something that can't be far off

Holding tight to mother's finger
Yellow lollipops galore
Half in goodness, half in wonder
Will you walk me to the war?

Roaming past the Roman ruins
Pits upon a foaming face
Terror came to tame the shoppers
Targets in the marketplace

No one made a wrong decision
No one left a thing behind
A broken chance, a twilight vision
Ripped across an empty mind

I walked out to the bridge this evening
And watched the stream that ran below
Day is done, and sun is setting
I forgot something I used to know

Down the green hill to the cold stream
Many men still tumble yet falling from the yellow sunbeam
All too eager to forget