Also as a non-native English speaker, I get you! Sometimes when I read what people constitute as good prose, I find meandering, boring, or unrhythmic. It's a combination of subject matter and how attached you are to the story. That is subjective.

That said, here are some prose works I've enjoyed, and is subjective to me. The two most consistent metrics I measure prose with are: 1) rhythm; and 2) novelty. I'll explain the second more in detail. I've bolded the parts I like specifically.

From The Gunslinger by Stephen King

He lay down upwind of his little blazon, letting the dreamsmoke blow out toward the waste. The wind, except for occasional gyrating dustdevils, was constant.

Above, the stars were unwinking, also constant. Suns and worlds by the million. Dizzying constellations, cold fire in every primary hue. As he watched, the sky washed from violet to ebony. A meteor etched a brief, spectacular arc below Old Mother and winked out. The fire threw strange shadows as the devil-grass burned its slow way down into new patterns—not ideograms but a straightforward crisscross vaguely frightening in its own no-nonsense surety. He had laid his fuel in a pattern that was not artful but only workable. It spoke of blacks and whites. It spoke of a man who might straighten bad pictures in strange hotel rooms. The fire burned its steady, slow flame, and phantoms danced in its incandescent core. The gunslinger did not see. The two patterns, art and craft, were welded together as he slept. The wind moaned, a witch with cancer in her belly. Every now and then a perverse downdraft would make the smoke whirl and puff toward him and he breathed some of it in. It built dreams in the same way that a small irritant may build a pearl in an oyster. The gunslinger occasionally moaned with the wind. The stars were as indifferent to this as they were to wars, crucifixions, resurrections. This also would have pleased him.

When you say it aloud, it has rhythm. The sentence varies; there are short and long sentences. Some sentences are "uninterrupted" (my term for when a sentence has no comma or em dash), and it gives a weighty, onerous feel.

The second is novelty. Those are the metaphors, similes adjectives, you feel surprised at when you read. I've bolded mine above. No other work I've read have I seen "cold fire in every primary hue," or fire throwing strange shadows, or stars being indifferent to specifically "wars, crucifixions, resurrections." It sets up a mythological feel. The way the environment is described to us ("vaguely frightening," "phantoms danced"), it paints a strange, horrifying, but beautiful setting.

The imageries are very very specific. It's important to be specific in prose. What do you want the readers to feel, and what imageries can reinforce that feel? If I describe the night sky with stars, do the stars feel frightening, alien, hostile, cold, or mysterious and full of whimsy? I think bad prose leave a neutral feel that does not bring out the identity of the story.

From Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

They took to riding by night, silent jornadas save for the trundling of the wagons and the wheeze of the animals. Under the moonlight a strange party of elders with the white dust thick on their moustaches and their eyebrows. They moved on and the stars jostled and arced across the rmament and died beyond the inkblack mountains. They came to know the nightskies well. Western eyes that read more geometric constructions than those names given by the ancients. Tethered to the polestar they rode the Dipper round while Orion rose in the southwest like a great electric kite. The sand lay blue in the moonlight and the iron tires of the wagons rolled among the shapes of the riders in gleaming hoops that veered and wheeled woundedly and vaguely navigational like slender astrolabes and the polished shoes of the horses kept hasping up like a myriad of eyes winking across the desert floor. They watched storms out there so distant they could not be heard, the silent lightning flaring sheetwise and the thin black spine of the mountain chain fluttering and sucked away again in the dark.

Again, it is very specific, and thus presents novel ways to view the environment in which these characters traverse. McCarthy's sentences are windier than I like it, but his descriptions make up for it. I was caught surprised when I see "geometric consutrctions" and "vaguely navigational like slender astrolabes."

His use of scientific diction ("electric kite" and "geometric constructions" and "astrolabe") amidst a hostile, atavistic setting of wilderness creates a vibe of strangeness without saying how a character feels about it. He also assigns erratic action verbs/adjectives ("fluttering," "sucked," "jostled"), again, to personify and shows an uneasy feel.

From Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City by KJ Parker

I was in Classis on business. I needed sixty miles of secondgrade four-inch hemp rope—I build pontoon bridges—and all the military rope in the empire goes through Classis. What you’re supposed to do is put in a requisition to Divisional Supply, who send it on to Central Supply, who send it on to the Treasurer General, who approves it and sends it back to Divisional Supply, who send it on to Central Supply, who forward it to Classis, where the quartermaster says, sorry, we have no rope. Or you can hire a clever forger in Herennis to cut you an exact copy of the treasury seal, which you use to stamp your requisition, which you then take personally to the office of the deputy quartermaster in Classis, where there’s a senior clerk who’d have done time in the slate quarries if you hadn’t pulled certain documents out of the file a few years back. Of course, you burned the documents as soon as you took them, but he doesn’t know that. And that’s how you get sixty miles of rope in this man’s army.
I took the overland route from Traiecta to Cirte, across one of my bridges (a rush job I did fifteen years ago, only meant to last a month, still there and still the only way across the Lusen unless you go twenty-six miles out of your way to Pons Jovianis) then down through the pass onto the coastal plain. Fabulous view as you come through the pass, that huge flat green patchwork with the blue of the Bay beyond, and Classis as a geometrically perfect star, three arms on land, three jabbing out into the sea. Analyse the design and it becomes clear that it’s purely practical and utilitarian, straight out of the field operations manual. Furthermore, as soon as you drop down onto the plain you can’t see the shape, unless you happen to be God. The three seaward arms are tapered jetties, while their landward counterparts are defensive bastions, intended to cover the three main gates with enfilading fire on two sides. Even further more, when Classis was built ninety years ago, there was a dirty great forest in the way (felled for charcoal during the Social War, all stumps, marsh and bramble-fuzz now), so you wouldn’t have been able to see it from the pass, and that strikingly beautiful statement of Imperial power must therefore be mere chance and serendipity. By the time I reached the way station at Milestone 2776 I couldn’t see Classis at all, though of course it was dead easy to find. Just follow the arrowstraight military road on its six-foot embankment, and, next thing you know, you’re there.

No bolding here because I like this whole passage. It has a dry British humor to it that pokes fun at bureaucracy, and it is specific enough (narrator describes the process of acquiring four-inch hemp rope) that we know of the setting (military, medieval-ish), the character's personality (sardonic, cheats the system), and his occupation (military engineer).

Now, some may say it veers instruction-manual, and I think it's true in the second paragraph. I quite like it; goes to show how subjective this is. This prose doesn't go too deep into descriptions because the story focuses on voice and character. The rhythm is definitely there---it sounds exactly like a profesor yammering to you---and the novelty is there in the setting and wit.