I've spent a lot of time on contemporary poets. But let's not forget the poetry that has stood the test of time. Three cheers for John Keats. Here's a section from the lovely "Ode on Melancholy":
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of gloved peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
Go read the rest of it here. "Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips..." Now that is a line of poetry.