Until Mr. Masters came on the scene there was just one thing which,
like a salient fortress in the midst of an enemy's advancing army,
acted as a barrier to the youth of the country. When one's son came to
one and said, "Father, I shall not be able to fulfill your dearest
wish and start work in the fertilizer department. I have decided to
become a poet," although one could no longer frighten him from his
purpose by talking of garrets and starvation, there was still one
weapon left. "What about the rhymes, Willie?" you replied, and the
eager light died out of the boy's face, as he perceived the catch in
what he had taken for a good thing. You pressed your advantage. "Think
of having to spend your life making one line rhyme with another! Think
of the bleak future, when you have used up 'moon' and 'June,' 'love'
and 'dove,' 'May' and 'gay'! Think of the moment when you have ended
the last line but one of your poem with 'windows' or 'warmth' and have
to buckle to, trying to make the thing couple up in accordance with
the rules! What then, Willie?"

Next day a new hand had signed on in the fertilizer department.

But now all that has changed. Not only are rhymes no longer necessary,
but editors positively prefer them left out. If Longfellow had been
writing today he would have had to revise "The Village Blacksmith" if
he wanted to pull in that dollar a line. No editor would print stuff
like:

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands.
The smith a brawny man is he
With large and sinewy hands.