When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back;
Three from the circle, three from the track;
Wood, bronze, iron; water, fire, stone;
Five will return, and one go alone.

Iron for the birthday, bronze carried long;
Wood from the burning, stone out of song;
Fire in the candle-ring, water from the thaw;
Six Signs the circle, and the grail gone before.

Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold
Played to wake the Sleepers, oldest of the old;
Power from the green witch, lost beneath the sea;
All shall find the light at last, silver on the tree.

Just re-read the Dark is Rising, which I first read when I was younger than 11-year old Will Stanton, the last of the old ones.

What a marvelous journey to return, inside the pages of a book, to a landscape and mythology that shaped the magic that I still see in the half-light at dusk and dawn, behind closed lids, or sometimes full-on under the bright light of the sun.

Maybe the Christian Right has one thing right: Books about 11-year old wizards are very powerful, they may even cause you to believe in magic for the rest of your life.

I'm glad that I grew up reading Susan Cooper not JK Rowlings.