Quotes About Rhyme

Its benefits to the poet are evident: the rhyme is merely a glorified pun, two strings of ideas bisociated in an acoustic knot.

If Dann's dane, Ann's dirty, if he's plane she's purty, if he's fane, she's flirty, with her auburnt streams, and her coy cajoleries, and her dabblin drolleries, for to rouse his rudderup, or to drench his dreams. If hot Hammurabi, or cowld Clesiastes, could espy her pranklings, they'd burst bounds agin, and renounce their ruings, and denounce their doings, for river and iver, and a night. Amin !

When I first started reading poetry, all the poets I read - Edgar Allan Poe, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier - were rhyme poets. That's what captured me.

History doesn't repeat itself," said Shane. "But it rhymes." "Who said that? Nas?" "Mark Twain.

When I was growing up, Dr. Seuss was really my favorite. There was something about the lyrical nature and the simplicity of his work that really hit me.

Why don't they live in Illusions?' suggested the Humbug. 'It's much prettier.' 'Many of them do,' he answered, walking in the direction of the forest once again, 'but it's just as bad to live a place where what you do see isn't there as it is to live in one where what you don't see is. ' 'Perhaps someday you can have one city as easy to see as Illusions and as hard to forget as Reality,' Mili remarked. 'That will happen only when you bring back Rhyme and Reason,' said Alec...

Moom' and 'tomb' actually rhyme, which is something Dickinson hardly ever did, preferring near-rhymes such as 'mat/gate', 'tune/sun,' and 'balm/hermaphrodite.

The Bluebeard's terrible parting gift had been to make desire rhyme with death and fear.

Whitman's poems present no trace of rhyme, save in a couple or so of chance instances. Parts of them, indeed, may be regarded as a warp of prose amid the weft of poetry

Old Custom says, that rhyming words Must form the Valentine; Yet jingling verse but ill accords With sentiments like mine...

Thirty days has September, April, June, and November; All the rest have thirty-one, But February twenty-eight alone, Except in leap-year, once in four, When February has one day more.

"Thirty days hath September," Every person can remember; But to know when Easter comes Puzzles even scholars some. When March the twenty-first is past Just watch the silvery moon, And when you see it full and round, Know Easter'll be here soon. After the moon has reached its full, Then Easter will be here, On the very Sunday after, In each and every year. And if it hap on Sunday The moon should reach its height, The Sunday following this event Will be the Easter bright.

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November, All the rest have thirty one, Once short February's done.

Thirty days has September, April, June, and November; When short February's done, All the rest have thirty-one.

There was an old coddle so molly, He talked in a glot that was poly, His gaws were so gew That his laps became dew, And he ate only pops that were lolly.

A dehoy who was terribly hobble, Cast only stones that were cobble And bats that were ding, From a shot that was sling, But never hit inks that were bobble.

The crocodile on the bus goes snap, snap, snap

he couldn't think of a single word to rhyme with Enovid.

In high school, we studied a lot of poetical forms. I was really interested in the math that was involved and the strange live break ups. That gave me a great amount of respect for a rhymed stanza.

When I was growing up, Dr. Seuss was really my favorite. There was something about the lyrical nature and the simplicity of his work that really hit me.

I like rhyme because it is memorable, I like form because having to work to a pattern gives me original ideas.

Rhyme is bullshit. Rhyme says that everything works out in the end. All harmony and order. When I see a rhyme in a poem, I know I'm being lied to. Go ahead, laugh! It's true—rhyme's a completely bankrupt device. It's just wishful thinking. Nostalgia.

One of the things I like so much about 'Goodnight Moon' is the way it leaves room for ambiguity.

Just as you say, sir. There is a letter on the tray, sir. By Jove, Jeeves, that was practically potry. Rhymed, did you notice?