Just a further note on sentimental poetry. We revolutionaries of 68 were selective in our disdain. I can well remember that the following poem was quite popular among the lit students at U of L. Perhaps because it was Yeats, we allowed ourselves to admire it.

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep   
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,   
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look   
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;   

How many loved your moments of glad grace,         
And loved your beauty with love false or true;   
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,   
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.   

And bending down beside the glowing bars,   
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled   
And paced upon the mountains overhead,   
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.