The Love Song of Robert Pruplant

In every English course I've ever taken that's had a poetry section, we have always had to read this poem, highly recognisable by its first stanza:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question .
Oh, do not ask, .What is it?.
Let us go and make our visit.

And I wonder why, with the thousands upon thousands of poems in the tradition of English literature, they can't bother to choose something else for us to read. There are only so many times one can read this without wanting to be that patient. It's not like I dislike it, I don't dislike it, I'm just somewhat tired of seeing it - much like I'm tired of hearing Stairway to Heaven.

Let us go then, you and I,
To meet that lady who would buy,
Spread against the evening sky,
A fine stairway to heaven.

When she gets there she knows,
If the restaurants are all closed,
With but a single word she can,
Still get oyster shells in one night cheap hotels.

I can hear T. S. Eliot revolving in his grave.