Of course in the back of the mind Frost’s statement that poetry without rhymes is like playing tennis without the net never leaves.
But also this risk of being just a sing-song man slave of this clapping, kissing sounds…
But it happens they come so naturally most of the time so you let them come, it’s even a matter of “democracy”! Every “voice” has a right.
But you can’t deny you often look for them sacrificing sobriety, substituting the pure strength of expression, the stark naked power of a metaphor on target with their lure for an easy success with words and lines that seem to adhere and harmonize with each other in a blink of an eye.
But when they happen and nothing else, you feel, is betrayed, and on the contrary the meaning is re enforced by the kiss of their sounds they are simply triumphant.
Anyway, how more extraordinary a poem is whose sound and meaning reside only inside the words and don't need any kissing of lines with lines. And in which the lines keep a balance and harmony in between them for some unfathomable reason.
Or how great if rhymes and rhyming occur only from time to time in a poem, with a splendid randomness as if they had escaped inadvertently with a marvellous unbearable lightness of being.