Rhyme (n.) frees verse from the stuffiness of language — its natural measurement of longs and shorts — and brings it close to the notes of the soul.
Rhyme (n.) is a thumping sound: once an idea has withdrawn into the depth of spirit, its sound must strike out coarser, if only to get attention at all.
Rhyme (n.) is not an accident of romantic poetry but its necessity: the soul, needing to apprehend itself, is brought back to itself by the return of the same sounds.
Rhyme (n.) makes the rhymes now find one another at once, now fly from one another and yet look for one another, so the ear is teased, deceived, kept in suspense, and contented again.
Rhyme (n.) did not come from the Arabs: it grew out of the rhythmical system itself, after the barbarian corruption of accent and the Christian turn to the inner life of feeling.
Rhyme (n.) is more material than metre and yet more abstract: a mere drawing of memory to a recurrence in which the listener recognizes himself as the activity of creation and is satisfied.