Poem fractal

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0.024 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.

Over the Hills and Far Away

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.2476 − 0.2280i

Drawing the boundary…

Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'

by James Shirley

−0.2434 − 0.2516i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Over the Hills and Far Away

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Last night, last night, in the dark o' the moon 
Into my dreams slid a faery tune 
It slew the dreams that I dreamed of him, 
With its moonshine music, faint and dim. 
What tune should the fairy pipers play 
But "Over the Hills and Far Away? " 

The music called to my idle feet, 
And O! the music was wild and sweet: 
I left my dreams and my lonely bed, 
And followed afar where the music led — 
And never a tune did the pipers play 
But "Over the Hills and Far Away." 

Over the hills and far away, 
What love has tenderer words to say? 
Love that lifteth or bows the head, 
Love that liveth or love that's dead? 
Hills that are far away are fair, 
And I followed the ghost of my lover there. 

We danced all night in a silent band, 
I and my lover, hand in hand: 
We danced, nor knew till the dew was dry 
That deep slept Donat and lone slept I — 
We took no thought of the coming day 
Over the hills and far away. 

My eyes are blind with the growing light, 
And O my grief! that the day was night — 
For my heart is broke, for my lover's eyes, 
And all day long in my ears there cries 
The tune of the fairy pipes that play 
"Over the Hills and Far Away." 

Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'

by James Shirley

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,
See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

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