Poem fractal

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0.025 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.

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time

by Giles Fletcher

0.0092 + 0.5962i

Drawing the boundary…

Tears

by Lizette Woodworth Reese

0.0255 + 0.6145i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time

by Giles Fletcher

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time,
(Too poasting time, that spends your time as fast)
To chaunt light toyes, or frame some wanton rime,
Where idle boyes may glut their lustful tast;
Or else with praise to cloath some fleshly slime
With virgins roses and faire lillies chast;
While itching bloods and youthfull cares adore it;
But wiser men, and once yourselues, will most abhorre it.

But thou (most neere, most deare) in this of thine
Ha'st proov'd the Muses not to Venus bound;
Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine;
Or thou such grace with Merci's selfe hast found,
That she herself deign's in thy leaues to shine;
Or stol'n from heav'n, thou broughtst this verse to ground,
Which frights the nummed soule with fearefull thunder,
And soone with honied dewes melts it 'twixt ioy and wonder.

Then doe not thou malitious tongues esteeme;
The glasse, through which an envious eye doth gaze,
Can easily make a mole-hill mountaines seeme:
His praise dispraises, his dispraises, praise;
Enough, if best men best thy labours deem,
And to the highest pitch thy merit raise;
While all the Muses to thy song decree
Victorious Triumph, Triumphant Victorie.

Tears

by Lizette Woodworth Reese

When I consider Life and its few years—
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle done
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears;
The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat;
The burst of music down an unlistening street —
I wonder at the idleness of tears.
Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight,
Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep,
By every cup of sorrow that you had,
Loose me from tears, and make me see aright
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep;
Homer his sight, David his little lad!

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