Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.040 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 Singers

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

−0.6534 − 0.5111i

Drawing the boundary…

Stanzas of Sorrow

by Amelia Alderson Opie

−0.6585 − 0.4717i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Singers

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

God sent his Singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart,

But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave a various gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony."

Stanzas of Sorrow

by Amelia Alderson Opie

Methinks there is a fearful blight,
Gone forth o'er all the things that be,
And darken'd seems the noon-day light,
And strangely still the restless sea.

The summer sun has lost its heat,
The sky has lost its lovely blue,
The roses smell no longer sweet,
And rayless seems the glittering dew.

The sky-lark's strain no more is gay,
But seems the trembling tone of woe;
The languid sheep no longer play,
The streams no longer seem to flow.

Whence spreads this awful change around,
Which thus with fearful eye I see?
But is the change by others found?
No—nought on earth is chang'd—but me.

For there's a blight within my heart,
That's thence transferr'd to nature's face;
When shall this painful blight depart,
And nature wear its wonted grace?

When ardent love is chill'd and cold,
And dead as all the hopes it gave—
But when shall I that day behold
When I shall fill my peaceful grave?

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