How can the tree but waste and wither away That hath not sometime comfort of the sun? How can that flower but fade and soon decay That always is with dark clouds over-run? Is this a life? Nay, death you may it call That feels each pain, and knows no joy at all.
What foodless beast can live long in good plight? Or is it life where senses there be none? Or what availeth eyes without their light? Or else a tongue to him that is alone? Is this a life? Nay, death you may it call That feels each pain and knows no joy at all.
Whereto serve ears if that there be no sound? Or such a head where no device doth grow? But all of plaints, since sorrow is the ground, Whereby the heart doth pine in deadly woe? Is this a life? Nay, death you may it call That feels each pain and knows no joy at all.
So close we are, and yet so far apart, — So close, I feel thy breath upon my cheek; So far, that all this love of mine is weak To touch in any way thy distant heart: So close, that, when I hear thy voice, I start To see my whole life standing bare and bleak; So far, that, though for years and years I seek, I shall not find thee other than thou art!
So, while I live, I walk upon the verge Of an impassable and changeless sea Which more than death divides me, love, from thee; The mournful beating of its heavy surge Is all the music now that I shall hear: O love, thou art too far, and yet too near!
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.