She suffered from depression most of her life and, like Rilke,  died of leukemia far too young.  I admire her sensibility and simplicity greatly.

Mid-winter, but nothing like your New Hampshire,

No prepossessing Mount Kearsarge, blue with snow

And fir-light, your paths on the hills above Eagle Pond

Undisturbed for weeks, buried deep as your despair.

In the darkness that comes so early there you couldn't

See the light that would be a burning in your blood.

Here a February thaw and all afternoon pine needles

Lift and fall, stitching the thready rain, unraveling

In slow runnels of runoff down the hill, through grass

Still green here and there, wearing a path as though

Some slumbering animal had too early awakened,

Following its hunger and still stunned with sleep. 

Now dusk and rain coalesce into a scatter of sleet

Against the windows, playing the brass wind chimes,

Making your song of "tiny bells in the cold air."

The quote is from Kenyon's poem "Lines for Akhmatova"