Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.007 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 Wasted Land

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

−0.0292 − 0.4942i

Drawing the boundary…

During Wind And Rain

by Thomas Hardy

−0.0299 − 0.4875i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Wasted Land

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Alas, for a sound is heard
Of a bitterly broken song;
Grievous is every word;
And the burden is weary and long
Like the waves between ebb and flow;
And it comes when the winds are low,
Or whenever the night is nigh,
And the world hath space for a sigh.

It was in the time of fruit;
When the peach began to pout,
And the purple grape to shine,
And the leaves were a threadbare suit
For the blushing blood of the vine,
And the spoilers were about
And the viper glode at the root:

—She came, and with her hand,
With her mouth, yea, and her eyes
She hath ravaged all the land;
Its beauty shall no more rise:
She hath drawn the wine to her lip.
For a mere wanton sip:
Lo, where the vine-branch lies;
Lo, where the drained grapes drip.

Her feet left many a stain;
And her lips left many a sting;
She will never come again,
And the fruit of everything
Is a canker or a pain:
And a memory doth crouch
Like an asp,—yea, in each part
Where she hath left her touch,—
Lying in wait for the heart.

During Wind And Rain

by Thomas Hardy

They sing their dearest songs —
He, she, all of them — yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face…
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss —
Elders and juniors — aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all —
Men and maidens — yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee…
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them — aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

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