I have no idea where I am. And I'm not drunk enough that that's the problem
Hidden within eight letters, A history of pain, rejection and disappointment, And an overt message of joy and appreciation, And a tacit hope, a prospective optimism and an absolution of self, Three sounds combined, Deliver all of this in a commonly understood sentence, Quietly, simply implying more, Between two people, Than any text can convey, To any remote audience. The perfect distillation, A momentarily forgotten yesterday, A beautiful now, And the prospect that what was once poison, Can also be panacea.
Here's a poem by William Butler Yeats that's full of Celtic imagery. I memorized it long ago, and find it useful on hikes through the woods. It might be a little too lyrical for your tastes, but easy to memorize. Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. but there are many... I went out to the hazel wood, When I had laid it on the floor
-------------------- Though I am old with wandering