Off the top of my head, I would agree that one is harder pressed to come up with (English-language) woman poets with such a bleakness of outlook as, say, Larkin or Hardy (that said, there are surprising poems of mirth and joy for those poets too--see Rachel Wetzsteon's recent piece on Larkin's joy in CPR). Sylvia Plath's despair is not quiet. Elizabeth Bishop's quiet is not desperate. Dorothy Parker might approach for bleakness, but the wit levens it.
Nonetheless, I can think of plenty of poems of quiet despair--the thread is titled "poems of" rather than poets--by women poets. This is surely one of the greatest, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls as countries lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
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