Poetry (when calming and evocative) is very Epicurean. All the more so, I maintain, when it is rhymed. Why is that? Is it personal preference?

Poets now despise the rhyme,
Or that’s the affectation.
But nonsense is as nonsense does
And what is worse
Than bad blank verse? –
Gibberish strung a word a line,
Conforming to the fashion?
The wish being father to the thought,
It’s promptly
Found
To
Be
Profound.

Rhymes outdated? That’s just rot!
Some can rhyme, and some can not.

It’s content, not the form, that counts,
And mastery of meaning.
A certain discipline of mind
Is requisite when using rhyme.
So don’t reject the tools at hand,
Misused as they may be.
The means can justify the end.
My point is
Penned.
Enough!
The End!

(Robert Hanrott, sometime in the last half century)