On this poem, the rest of Yeats' poetry turns as the constellated stars turn about Polaris. No sonnet here. At this point, Yeats is working quickly, playfully, with elements repeated from the other sections of a sequence, not an individual sonnet. If it was intended as a sonnet, at all, it's a throwaway. Again, it appears as the last poem in the book, summing up what has preceded it.
Civilization is an illusion.
Some verbs seem misapplied. Civilization is hooped together. It falls short. Worst of all, the poet asks us to take this renunciation of worldly achievement on the weight of stock imagery. The fourteener never was his preference, not for serious work.