Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.074 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.

About Love

by Philip Bourke Marston

0.5210 + 0.1468i

Drawing the boundary…

Loves Garden Grief

by Robert Southwell

0.5166 + 0.2206i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

About Love

by Philip Bourke Marston

Come now, I will be frank with you, and say 
I have for you a strange and bitter love: 
Most strong it is, but no love's strong enough 
From higher aims to make me turn away; 
Some short sharp pain, some idle night or day, 
Is all the hurt that I shall have thereof. 
I will not wed you, and I must remove 
Your spell from off my path as best I may. 

Your face would come between my work and me; 
Your love would quite unnerve me for the strife; 
Kiss me, forget me wholly, as I know 
I shall forget you in the whirl of life: 
Nay, do not look; I swear I will not see; 
Take off your lips lest I should crush you so. 

Loves Garden Grief

by Robert Southwell

Vaine loves avaunt, infamous is your pleasure,
Your joy deceit:
Your jewels jests, and worthelesse trash your treasure,
Fooles common bait.
Your pallace is a prison that allureth
To sweet mishap, and rest that paine procureth,

Your garden griefe, hedg'd in with thornes of envie,
And stakes of strife:
Your Allyes errour graveled with Jelosie,
And cares of life.
Your bankes are seates enwrapt with shades of sadnes,
Your Arbours breed rough fittes of raging madnes.

Your beds are sowne with seedes of all iniquitie,
And poys'ning weeds:
Whose stalkes evill thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanity,
Whose fruite misdeedes.
Whose sap is sinne, whose force and operation,
To banish grace, and worke the soules damnation.

Your trees are dismall plantes of pyning corrosives,
Whose roote is ruth.
Whose barke is bale, whose tymber stubborne fantasyes:
Whose pyth untruth.
On which in liewe of birdes whose voyce delighteth:
Of guiltie conscience screeching note affrighteth.

Your coolest summer gales are scalding sighings,
Your shoures are teares,
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinfull livyng,
Your favoures feares,
Your gardener Sathan, all you reape is misery:
Your gaine remorse and losse of all felicitie.

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