Here is an offering from Ted Hughes, chosen by WillDuff, who recommends it to us "because of its energy and movement, which I find exhilarating in a very musical way, and the way it rolls and pushes through to the end with the larks. I suppose larks could be slightly uncomfortable echo of pastoralism, for those who dislike that - Vaughan Williams and suchlike - except that the language has the strength you expect of Hughes."
I agree with him: it's a wonderful poem, tough and muscular, implying a tectonic grind and shift. It reminds me of that line of Cathy's in Wuthering Heights, when she compares her love for Heathcliff to "the eternal rocks beneath-a source of little visible delight, but necessary."
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Pennines in April
If this county were a sea (that is solid rock
Deeper than any sea) these hills heaving
Out of the east, mass behind mass, at this height
Hoisting heather and stones to the sky
Must burst upwards and topple into Lancashire.
Perhaps, as the earth turns, such ground-stresses
Do come rolling westward through the locked land.
Now, measuring the miles of silence
Your eye takes the strain: through
Those barrellings of strength are heaving slowly and heave
To your feet and surf upwards
In a still, fiery air, hauling the imagination,
Carrying the larks upward.
TED HUGHES