Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

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.

Qui Laborat, Orat

by Arthur Hugh Clough

−0.3384 − 0.1345i

Drawing the boundary…

My Love is Dead

by Philip Bourke Marston

−0.3609 − 0.1425i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Qui Laborat, Orat

by Arthur Hugh Clough

O only Source of all our light and life,
Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,
But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought,
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought,
My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind
Speechless remain, or speechless e’en depart;
Nor seek to see—for what of earthly kind
Can see Thee as Thou art?—

If well-assured ’tis but profanely bold
In thought’s abstractest forms to seem to see,
It dare not dare the dread communion hold
In ways unworthy Thee,

O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare;
And if in work its life it seem to live,
Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,
And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition start.

But, as thou willest, give or e’en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight,
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

My Love is Dead

by Philip Bourke Marston

'Tis Spring, the fresh green glints in the brook, 
The primrose laughs from its shady nook, 
Winter away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Spring, then — my love is dead! 

The Summer is come with burning light; 
The swallow wheels and dips in his flight; 
The Spring away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Summer, my love is dead! 

Autumn is come, with its gold-tressed trees. 
Far through the wood sighs the dirge-like breeze; 
Summer away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Autumn, my love is dead! 

The Winter is come, with white, wan cheek, 
The bare boughs toss, and the wild winds shriek; 
Autumn away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Winter, my love is dead! 

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