Swinburne

English poet and many-time Nobel Prize in literature nominee, youthful wildman A.C. Swinburne's [1837-1909] poem 'A Dark Month' has a great opening in stanza one [and read more here]:

I. A MONTH without sight of the sun     Rising or reigning or setting Through days without use of the day, Who calls it the month of May? The sense of the name is undone     And the sound of it fit for forgetting.We shall not feel if the sun rise,     We shall not care when it sets: If a nightingale make night’s air As noontide, why should we care? Till a light of delight that is done rise,     Extinguishing grey regrets; Till a child’s face lighten again     On the twilight of older faces; Till a child’s voice fall as the dew On furrows with heat parched through And all but hopeless of grain,     Refreshing the desolate places— Fall clear on the ears of us hearkening     And hungering for food of the sound And thirsting for joy of his voice: Till the hearts in us hear and rejoice, And the thoughts of them doubting and darkening     Rejoice with a glad thing found. When the heart of our gladness is gone,     What comfort is left with us after? When the light of our eyes is away, What glory remains upon May, What blessing of song is thereon     If we drink not the light of his laughter? No small sweet face with the daytime     To welcome, warmer than noon! No sweet small voice as a bird’s To bring us the day’s first words! Mid May for us here is not Maytime!     No summer begins with June. A whole dead month in the dark,     A dawn in the mists that o’ercome her Stifled and smothered and sad— Swift speed to it, barren and bad! And return to us, voice of the lark,     And remain with us, sunlight of summer.

Bryant

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] has some great poetry, he's a more relaxed version of Shelley--a more American one. He was an early U.S. poet and walked seven miles daily to his workplace as a lawyer. Read his work here--and here's an example of his beautiful work [the last stanza elevates the whole thing]:

THE YELLOW VIOLET.

When beechen buds begin to swell,
    And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
    Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
    Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
    Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
    First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
    Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
    Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
    And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
    And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
    When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
    Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
    I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
    The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them—but I regret
    That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
    Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
    That made the woods of April bright.

The earth

This piece by Canadian poet Archibald Lampman is a great evocation of the earth, the transience of life, and the endless amount of types of beauty in the natural world. It has a great ghostly feeling to it, with a real sense of danger--not dramatic danger, but the real, supreme danger of death. Of death's inevitability. 

BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP.

Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away—The last sad hours that were touched with her grace—In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play;The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering spaceLet not a sight or a sound eraseOf the woe that hath fallen on all the lands:Gather ye, dreams, to her sunny face,Shadow her head with your golden hands.

The woods that are golden and red for a dayGirdle the hills in a jewelled case,Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slayThe beautiful life that he hath in chase.Darker and darker the shadows paceOut of the north to the southern sands,Ushers bearing the winter's mace:Keep them away with your woven hands.

The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray,More bitter and cold than the winds that race,From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away,This way and that way, the woodland lace.In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace;Behind her the ghost of the winter stands;Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place:Mantle her head with your glowing hands.

Envoi.

Till the slayer be slain and the spring displaceThe might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands,Let her heart not gather a dream that is base:Shadow her head with your golden hands.

Forests

Canadian poet Archibald Lampman [1861-1899] wrote some interesting work, especially this yearning, dream you want to visit of fall or winter in the countryside:

IN NOVEMBER.

The hills and leafless forests slowly yieldTo the thick-driving snow. A little whileAnd night shall darken down. In shouting fileThe woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow,Where the last ploughman follows still his row,Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moanAbout the naked uplands. I aloneAm neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.

D.H.

The English writer D.H. Lawrence [1885-1930] is someone with a particular reputation, and especially famous for his novels. He's also a very interesting poet--try this piece below. More and other poets here.

SCENT OF IRISES

A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable. I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast You with fire on your brow and your cheeks and your chin as you dipped Your face in your marigold bunch, to touch and contrast Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not outlast. You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You sitting in the cowslips of the meadows above, —Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love— You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove—! [Pg 77] You are always asking, do I remember, remember The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up And kindled you over deep with a coat of gold? You ask again, do the healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark that swallows all, and nought throws up. You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice;—you invisible— Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! —And yes, thank God, it still is possible The healing days shall close the darkness up Wherein I breathed you like a smoke or dew. Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, The golden fire has gone, and your face is ash Indistinguishable in the grey, chill day, The night has burnt you out, at last the good Dark fire burns on untroubled without clash Of you upon the dead leaves saying me yea.

H.D.

H.D. [1886-1961], the famous American female Imagist/Modernist poet Hilda Doolittle [usually referred to with her initials], is one that is not often celebrated. Her work is incredible, often about the ancient world of Greece and Rome, and has an intense 'visual' aspect. For more, read here.

ORION DEAD

[Artemis speaks]

The cornel-trees uplift from the furrows, the roots at their bases strike lower through the barley-sprays. So arise and face me. I am poisoned with the rage of song. I once pierced the flesh of the wild-deer, now am I afraid to touch the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? I will tear the full flowers and the little heads of the grape-hyacinths. I will strip the life from the bulb until the ivory layers lie like narcissus petals on the black earth. Arise, lest I bend an ash-tree into a taut bow, and slay—and tear all the roots from the earth. The cornel-wood blazes and strikes through the barley-sprays, but I have lost heart for this. I break a staff. I break the tough branch. I know no light in the woods. I have lost pace with the winds.

Spring materializes

As winter leaves us, it's depths seem more appealing than they used to be. That strange twilight of clouded winter days, that mist in the woods filled with snow, it's very unique. It's like a dream and yet an adventure that you're not sure you want to venture into. Hiking short trails in the winter can be a really fun experience, the atmosphere really cannot be reproduced anywhere else. 

One poem this brings to mind is the famous American poet Robert Frost's [1874-1963] "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"--here are more poems of his, and to hear/listen more of his work look here; his most famous poems also include "The Road Not Taken" and "Fire and Ice". Frost won four Pulitzers for poetry.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.