Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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.

Beautiful World

by John Stuart Blackie

−0.4682 − 0.5076i

Drawing the boundary…

Bridal Song

by George Chapman

−0.4609 − 0.5244i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Beautiful World

by John Stuart Blackie

Beautiful world!
Though bigots condemn thee,
My tongue finds no words
For the graces that gem thee!
Beaming with sunny light,
Bountiful ever,
Streaming with gay delight,
Full as a river!
Bright world! brave world!
Let cavillers blame thee!
I bless thee, and bend
To the God who did frame thee!

Beautiful world!
Bursting around me,
Manifold, million-hued
Wonders confound me!
From earth, sea, and starry sky,
Meadow and mountain,
Eagerly gushes
Life's magical fountain.
Bright world! brave world!
Though witlings may blame thee,
Wonderful excellence
Only could frame thee!

The bird in the greenwood
His sweet hymn is trolling,
The fish in blue ocean
Is spouting and rolling!
Light things on airy wing
Wild dances weaving,
Clods with new life in spring
Swelling and heaving!
Thou quick-teeming world,
Though scoffers may blame thee,
I wonder, and worship
The God who could frame thee!

Beautiful world!
What poesy measures
Thy strong-flooding passions,
Thy light-trooping pleasures?
Mustering, marshalling,
Striving and straining,
Conquering, triumphing,
Ruling and reigning!
Thou bright-armied world!
So strong, who can tame thee?
Wonderful power of God
Only could frame thee!

Beautiful world!
While godlike I deem thee,
No cold wit shall move me
With bile to blaspheme thee!
I have lived in thy light,
And, when Fate ends my story,
May I leave on death's cloud
The bright trail of life's glory!
Wondrous old world!
No ages shall shame thee!
Ever bright with new light
From the God who did frame thee!

Bridal Song

by George Chapman

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtue's only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day's outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.

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Track 1
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