Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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.

To the Fair Clorinda

by Aphra Behn

−0.0207 + 0.1873i

Drawing the boundary…

Stricken

by Philip Bourke Marston

−0.0046 + 0.1955i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To the Fair Clorinda

by Aphra Behn

WHO MADE LOVE TO ME,
IMAGIN’D MORE THAN WOMAN

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complainte,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou’d – thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.

    Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join’d;
When e’er the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead
Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.

Stricken

by Philip Bourke Marston

O love, behold thy feet are shod with flame! 
Thy body clothed with torture as a dress; 
Too weak thy stricken lips are to express 
Thy mighty grief, or call upon the name 
Of Him who gives the sorrow and the shame. 
Thy lips have tasted the salt bitterness 
Of tears like blood, wrung out of thy distress. 
Thy soul must reap a barren, bitter fame. 

Fair lands beneath thee, and fair skies above. 
Thy heart falls blind, outside of that fair land 
Whereto it may not come; all words are vain, — 
It is the unattainable we love. 
But rest a little, and a friendly hand 
Shall give thee peace, and ease from all thy pain. 

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