My introduction to poetry was the work of Sara Teasdale, whose rhythms captivated me, and still do. This is one of the few poems I know by heart:
A running tide where moonlight burned
Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
It is the happy heart that breaks.
The heart asks more than life can give,
When that is learned, then all is learned;
The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
It will not hurt me when I am old.