Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.035 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 Death Song

by William Morris

0.1971 + 0.2392i

Drawing the boundary…

Horace, Ode XI. Lib. I

by Robert Fergusson

0.1626 + 0.2348i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Death Song

by William Morris

What cometh here from west to east awending?
And who are these, the marchers stern and slow?
We bear the message that the rich are sending
Aback to those who bade them wake and know.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.

We ask them for a life of toilsome earning,
They bade us bide their leisure for our bread;
We crave to speak to tell our woeful learning:
We come back speechless, bearing back our dead.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.

They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken.
They turn their faces from the eyes of fate;
Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken.
But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.

Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison;
Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest;
But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen
Brings us our day of work to win the best.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.

Horace, Ode XI. Lib. I

by Robert Fergusson

Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup's kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running.
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.
Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa'as
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne'er lat your hope o'ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content