Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.010 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 Damp

by John Donne

0.0698 − 0.0335i

Drawing the boundary…

Mankind is sick

by Thomas Traherne

0.0741 − 0.0427i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Damp

by John Donne

When I am dead, and doctors know not why,
And my friends’ curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
You think a sudden damp of love
Will through all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your murder to the name of massacre.

Poor victories! But if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill the enormous giant, your disdain,
And let the enchantress Honor next be slain.
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,
Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then.

For I could muster up as well as you
My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast constancy and secretness,
But these I neither look for, nor profess.
Kill me as woman; let me die
As a mere man. Do you but try
Your passive valor, and you shall find then,
In that you have odds enough of any man.

Mankind is sick

by Thomas Traherne

Mankind is sick, the World distemper'd lies,
Opprest with Sins and Miseries.
Their Sins are Woes; a long corrupted Train
Of Poyson, drawn from Adam's vein,
Stains all his Seed, and all his Kin
Are one Disease of Life within.
They all torment themselves!
The World's one Bedlam, or a greater Cave
Of Mad-men, that do alwaies rave.

The Wise and Good like kind Physicians are,
That strive to heal them by their Care.
They Physick and their Learning calmly use,
Although the Patient them abuse.
For since the Sickness is (they find)
A sad Distemper of the Mind;
All railings they impute,
All Injuries, unto the sore Disease,
They are expresly come to ease!

If we would to the Worlds distemper'd Mind
Impute the Rage which there we find,
We might, even in the midst of all our Foes,
Enjoy and feel a sweet Repose:
Might pity all the Griefs we see,
Anointing every Malady
With precious Oyl and Balm;
And while ourselves are Calm, our Art improve
To rescue them, and shew our Love.

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