Our minds wander
to the land of cymbals and cigarettes
oh, this land of plenty has got
everything but that, it seems
The sweet smell of the sea breeze
and the thoughts of old Byzantium so
eerily close at hand.
As we drift ever farther,
black sea starts us sinking,
the aridity compromised only
by tall bottles of sweet red wine
Yeats would be ecstatic
the sieve and the sand 
i was just tossing up between Hardy’s ‘The Darkling Thrush’ and Yeats’s ‘Sailing to Byzantium’ as essay topics. You have made up my mind
Glad to have been of service.
i suppose it was an excellent tribute.
Maybe I appreciate that.