Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.070 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.

A Catch

by Alexander Brome

−0.1085 + 0.9371i

Drawing the boundary…

The King of Ireland's Son

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.0820 + 0.8727i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Catch

by Alexander Brome

Let's leave off our labour, and now let's go play,
For this is our time to be jolly;
Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away,
To nourish our griefs is but folly.
He that won't drink and sing,
Is a Traytor to's King,
And so's he that does not look twenty years younger;
We'l look blith and trim,
With rejoycing at him
That is the restorer, and will be the Prolonger,
Of all our felicity and health,
The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth,
'Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches,
Our riches brings honors, at which every mind itches,
And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy,
And our joy makes us leap, and sing Vive le Roy.

The King of Ireland's Son

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Now all away to Tir na n'Og are many roads that run, 
But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of Ireland's son. 

There's roads of hate, and roads of love, and many a middle way, 
And castles keep the valleys deep where happy lovers stray — 

Where Aongus goes there's many a rose burns red mid shadows dun, 
No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ireland's son. 

And yonder where the sun is high Love laughs amid the hay, 
But smile and sigh have passed him by, and never make delay. 

And here (and O! the sun is low!) they're glad for harvest won, 
But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of Ireland's son! 

And you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck it yet: 
But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset? 

Oh, what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianan sidhe? 
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drowsily? 

The star is yours to win or lose, and me the dusk has won, 
He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son. 

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