Dickinson and C. Rossetti

 "It sifts..." by Emily Dickinson:

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

Rossetti's poem 'One Sea-Side Grave' :

Unmindful of the roses,
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget, –
But one remembers yet.

Gothic

Marge Simon has an excellent atmospheric, gothic piece in BloodRoseMag [2005], "Phantom" here:

Maybe to find you
in the gathering dusk,
[...]
before the thing happened
that refuses to be remembered
[...]
on my trembling hands,
maybe to find you
[...]

James Wright

The American poet James Wright's [1927-1980]  piece "A lazy poem on Saturday Evening" [1961] is excellent, read it all here:

[...]
As they follow solitary people down paths.
I lie back in the grass, shameless,
And surrender to that voice.
My bare forearms are wet
With dew.

Rauan Klassnik

Klassnik's book of poetry 'Holy Land' is very surrealist, wild, passionately dark and gothic [like early gothic literature or HBO's tv series True Detective [season 1], here are some excerpts, and be sure to read his three poems at Paragraphiti here [2014, Jan.], ie here's the end of 'The Blur':
[...]
It blurs at my face. And blurs my neck. Blurs at fish, blowing round us, in a cold, marble forest.

Other interesting excerpts of his work include:

[...]
I’m on a cloud floating by and I’ve gone mad but madness flows away in a tall shining work of Art and I’m standing in front of a fountain and the world’s ringing down through me and there are no fields of migrants mixing hair and bone into concrete. Trucks lined up and ready. Cups of cold coffee, a Rolex and a crucifix. A girl on a payphone begging.
[...]

Another:
[...]
God breathes in your mouth and licks between your toes till your eyes roll back. Then he takes away the chair and black flowers spike.
[...]
Drifting in the pool with the light shimmering dark all around them these red pods look like spent shotgun shells. You leaned down and bit my chest and you told me I was filled with suffering: “I bow down to it and lick its feet,” you said. My God, it was all so simple
[...]

Elline Lipkin

This poem 'La Sorcière' by Elline Lipkin is featured at WeirdSister here [2016, Jan.], and it's excellent:

      It curls,                           a thin slice of dun moon, its pressed lips                           un-made-up against the stars’ hoyden brass.

[...]

   Then pairs,                          two cards pulled side by side from the arcana,

[...]

Marisa Crawford

Crawford's piece 'Kozmic Blues' is excellent, over at TheFanzine here [2013], she has a great voice that is incisive and yet lyrically beautiful--modern poetry rarely has the intrinsic beauty necessary for the art:
[...]
Violet crushed-velvet skirt like I was following a trail somewhere.
[...]
My ball & chain.
The rhinestones. The rain.
I was swimming in it.
[...]

And the poem 'People Power' by Marisa Crawford in Moonshot issue 5 [2013] is excellent, read it here:

[...]
I'm sorry to the giant antique urn. I'm sorry to the magic.

That every single day I obscure by floating above the sidewalk in
all black like a ghost on my way to buy the earrings.
[...]

Roses

THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE. by famous French writer Victor Hugo [read more here]

     ("La tombe dit à la rose.")

     {XXXI., June 3, 1837}

     The Grave said to the rose
       "What of the dews of dawn,
     Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
       "And what of spirits flown,
     The souls whereon doth close
       The tomb's mouth unawares?"
     The Rose said to the Grave.

     The Rose said: "In the shade
     From the dawn's tears is made
     A perfume faint and strange,
       Amber and honey sweet."
       "And all the spirits fleet
     Do suffer a sky-change,
       More strangely than the dew,
       To God's own angels new,"
     The Grave said to the Rose.

     A. LANG.