Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.105 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.

The Grasshopper

by Abraham Cowley

−0.2638 + 1.4398i

Drawing the boundary…

Broceliande

by Alan Seeger

−0.1874 + 1.3684i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Grasshopper

by Abraham Cowley

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou!
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

Broceliande

by Alan Seeger

Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade,
Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of horizons untravelled, unscanned.
Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invade
                    Broceliande.

Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight disband,
Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted in solemn parade,
Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the valleys of Fairyland—

Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the horn of a huntsman strayed,
Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage fitfully fanned,
Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle, disturbed and affrayed:
                    Broceliande—
                    Broceliande—
                    Broceliande. . . .

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