Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.051 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.

'Tis Spring, My Love, 'Tis Spring

by John Clare

−0.7481 − 0.3165i

Drawing the boundary…

See, says the lime

by Dylan Thomas

−0.6974 − 0.3103i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

'Tis Spring, My Love, 'Tis Spring

by John Clare

’Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring,
And the birds begin to sing:
If ’t was Winter, left alone with you,
Your bonny form and face,
Would make a Summer place,
And be the finest flower that ever grew.

'Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring,
And the hazel catkins hing,
While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew;
But that’s not so white within
As your bosom’s hidden skin—
That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew.

The sun arose from bed,
All strewn with roses red,
But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place
Is not so fresh and fair,
Or so sweet beyond compare,
As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face.

I love Spring’s early flowers,
And their bloom in its first hours,
But they never half so bright or lovely seem
As the blithe and happy grace
Of my darling’s blushing face,
And the happiness of loves young dream.

See, says the lime

by Dylan Thomas

See, says the lime, my wicked milks
I put round ribs that packed their heart,
And elbowed veins that, nudging blood,
Roused it to fire;
Once in this clay fenced by the sticks
That starry fence the clay of light
The howling spirit shaped a god
Of death’s undoer.

On these blue lips, the lime remarks,
The wind of kisses sealed a pact
That leaping veins threw to the wind
And brains turned sour;
The blood got up as red as wax
As kisses froze the waxing thought,
The spirit racked its muscles and
The loins cried murder.

The strings of fire choked his sex
And tied an iris in his throat
To burst into a hanging land
Where flesh’s fever
Itched on the hangman’s silks;
The brains of death undid the knot
Before the blood and flame were twined
In love’s last collar.

See, says the lime, around these wrecks 
Of growing bones the muscles slid ;
I chalked upon the breastbone’s slate
And ran a river
Up through the fingers’ cracks;
The milk of death, I filled the hand
That drove my stuff through skin and gut;
Death’s death’s undoer.

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