There is a country called Tir-na-n-Og, which means the Country of the Young, for age
and death have not found it; neither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it. The
shadiest boskage covers it perpetually’.
        W. B. Yeats Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry

Banshees never cry in the depths of clear waters,
Only Celtic harps sing of gentler sorrows, while below
The current, merrows play an Irish jig and swim with water fairies.
Never do the salt of tears drip into these waters, nor Age bringing
His scythe. Moon-sets kiss the horizon of water, casting White-washed silhouettes of quiet moonbeams in perfect lines
Above cities ancient as time, yet filled only with youth.
On the mirrored surface, no living soul can see
Any consolation other than his own face
Peering back like Narcissus with a longing eye.