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.

The Innovator

by Stephen Vincent Benét

−0.1064 − 0.5175i

Drawing the boundary…

Euthanasia

by Lord Byron

−0.1032 − 0.5227i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Innovator

by Stephen Vincent Benét

I said, "Why should a pyramid
Stand always dully on its base?
I'll change it! Let the top be hid,
The bottom take the apex-place!"
And as I bade they did.

The people flocked in, scores on scores,
To see it balance on its tip.
They praised me with the praise that bores,
My godlike mind on every lip.
—Until it fell, of course.

And then they took my body out
From my crushed palace, mad with rage,
—Well, half the town was wrecked, no doubt—
Their crazy anger to assuage
By dragging it about.

The end? Foul birds defile my skull.
The new king's praises fill the land.
He clings to precept, simple, dull;
His pyramids on bases stand.
But—Lord, how usual!

Euthanasia

by Lord Byron

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow: 
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near: 
I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see: 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; 
And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan; 
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 
Where all have gone, and all must go! 
To be the nothing that I was 
Ere born to life and living woe! — 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be.

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