Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.016 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

A Hymn to God the Father

by John Donne

−0.0580 + 0.0408i

Drawing the boundary…

An Old Picture

by John Boyle O'Reilly

−0.0669 + 0.0274i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

A Hymn to God the Father

by John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

An Old Picture

by John Boyle O'Reilly

There are times when a dream delicious 
Steals into a musing hour, 
Like a face with love capricious 
That peeps from a woodland bower; 
And one dear scene comes changeless; 
A wooded hill and a river; 
A deep, cool bend, where the lilies end, 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

And I lie on the brink there, dreaming 
That the life I live is a dream; 
That the real is but the seeming, 
And the true is the sun-flecked stream. 
Beneath me, the perch and the bream sail past 
In the dim cool depths of the river; 
The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

There are voices of children away on the hill; 
There are bees thro’ the flag-flowers humming; 
The lighter-man calls to the lock, and the mill 
On the farther side is drumming. 
And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream, 
In the grass by the brink of a river, 
Where the voices blend and the lilies end 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

Like a gift from the past is the kindly dream, 
For the sorrow and passion and pain 
Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of the stream, 
And the child-life comes again. 
O, the sweet sweet pain of a joy that died— 
Of a pain that is joy forever! 
O, the life that died in the stormy tide 
That was once my sun-flecked river. 

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