Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.006 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.

Patty of the Vale

by John Clare

−0.2532 − 0.3296i

Drawing the boundary…

Dog-Tired

by D. H. Lawrence

−0.2579 − 0.3266i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Patty of the Vale

by John Clare

Where lonesome woodlands close surrounding
Mark the spot a solitude,
And nature’s uncheck’d scenes abounding
Form a prospect wild and rude,
A cottage cheers the spot so glooming,
Hid in the hollow of the dale,
Where, in youth and beauty blooming
Lives sweet Patty of the Vale.

Gay as the lambs her cot surrounding,
Sporting wild the shades among,
O’er the hills and bushes bounding,
Artless, innocent, and young,
Fresh, as blush of morning roses
Ere the mid-day suns prevail,
Fair as lily-bud uncloses,
Blooms sweet Patty of the Vale.

Low and humble though her station,
Dress though mean she’s doom’d to wear,
Few superiors in the nation
With her beauty can compare.
What are riches?—not worth naming,
Though with some they may prevail;
Their’s be choice of wealth proclaiming,
Mine is Patty of the Vale.

Fools may fancy wealth and fortune
Join to make a happy pair,
And for such the god importune,
With full many a fruitless prayer:
I, their pride and wealth disdaining
Should my humble hopes prevail,
Happy then, would cease complaining,
Blest with Patty of the Vale.

Dog-Tired

by D. H. Lawrence

If she would come to me here,
Now the sunken swaths
Are glittering paths
To the sun, and the swallows cut clear
Into the low sun—if she came to me here!

If she would come to me now,
Before the last mown harebells are dead,
While that vetch clump yet burns red;
Before all the bats have dropped from the bough
Into the cool of night—if she came to me now!

The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is still at last. If she would come,
I would gather up the warm hay from
The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.

I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee
And lie stone still, while she
Breathed quiet above me—we could stop
Till the stars came out to see.

I should like to lie still
As if I was dead—but feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my hair until
This ache was shed.

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