Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.021 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 Mariner's Curse

by Richard

−0.2265 − 0.4387i

Drawing the boundary…

The Solitary Reaper

by William Wordsworth

−0.2300 − 0.4597i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Mariner's Curse

by Richard

Out on the ocean, we set our sails,
A mariner's tale through the stormy gales,
An albatross soaring, a symbol of grace,
We cheered and we hailed, in that desolate place.

But oh, the mariner's hand,
Struck down the bird that graced our land,
Now a curse upon our fate,
In this vast and empty expanse.

The winds they did die, the sun stood still,
A silent sea, a foreboding chill,
With heavy hearts and parched dry throats,
We paid the price for what we wrote.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink,
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The dead men stood with vacant eyes,
As the mariner faced his solemn cries,
A life of penance, a tale to tell,
To wander the earth, a living shell.

A lesson learned through endless strife,
To cherish all that shares our life,
The albatross, a spirit's guide,
In every heart, the truth does bide.

Now hear the mariner's call,
Respect the life that binds us all,
For every action bears its weight,
In the web of our shared fate.

The Solitary Reaper

by William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands 
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago: 
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill;
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

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