Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.031 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.

To Mary

by Charles Wolfe

0.0034 − 0.3849i

Drawing the boundary…

The Wild Honey Suckle

by Philip Freneau

0.0342 − 0.3863i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To Mary

by Charles Wolfe

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

The Wild Honey Suckle

by Philip Freneau

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
 Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
 Unseen thy little branches greet:
    No roving foot shall crush thee here,
    No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature’s self in white arrayed,
 She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
 And sent soft waters murmuring by;
    Thus quietly thy summer goes,
    Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
 I grieve to see your future doom;
They died –— nor were those flowers more gay,
 The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
    Unpitying frosts, and Autumn’s power
    Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
 At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
 For when you die you are the same;
    The space between, is but an hour,
    The frail duration of a flower.

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