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A Return

 WE turned back mad from the mystic mountains,
All foamed with red and with elfin gold:
Up from the heart of the twilight’s fountains
The fires enchanted were starward rolled.
We turned back mad: we thought of the morrow, The iron clang of the far-away town: We could not weep in our bitter sorrow, But joy as an Arctic sun went down.

Poem by George William Russell
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