Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.027 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.

November

by Elizabeth Stoddard

−0.1530 − 0.0099i

Drawing the boundary…

Love's Diet

by John Donne

−0.1472 − 0.0366i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

November

by Elizabeth Stoddard

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds,
For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's bier
These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,
Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
The naked, silent trees have taught me this, —
The loss of beauty is not always loss!

Love's Diet

by John Donne

To what a cumbersome unwieldiness
And burdensome corpulence my love had grown,
But that I did, to make it less,
And keep it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it feed upon
That which love worst endures, discretion.

Above one sigh a day I allowed him not,
Of which my fortune and my faults had part;
And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she sigh from my mistress’s heart,
And thought to feast on that, I let him see
’Twas neither very sound, nor meant for me.

If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so
With scorn or shame, that him it nourished not;
If he sucked hers, I let him know
’Twas not a tear which he had got;
His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;
For eyes which roll towards all weep not, but sweat.

Whatever he would dictate, I wrote that,
But burnt my letters; when she wrote to me,
And that that favour made him fat,
I said, if any title be
Conveyed by this, ah, what does it avail
To be the fortieth name in an entail?

Thus I reclaimed my buzzard love, to fly
At what, and when, and how, and where I choose;
Now negligent of sport I lie,
And now as other falconers use,
I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh and weep;
And the game killed or lost, go talk, and sleep.

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