Placed within the organic context of all the poets and critics here, just as Pritchard brings them, from good-humored Dryden, through earthy Johnson, on up through sensitive Hardy, wise Eliot, and so forth, I think the reader is "okay" with that key line from perhaps the last great poet here, Larkin. "Beneath it all, desire for oblivion runs." This sentiment, is it something of a beam of light that shines through, a touchstone by which to read the others, as say, Hardy's "On One Who Lived and Died Where He Was Born."
One wishes someone had turned poor Larkin on to yoga, for health's sake. (Maybe he would have been good at it, on top of his accomplishments.)
Happy Thanksgiving to all. There's hope for poets yet. Namaste.