Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.033 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 Rant to his Mistress

by John Oldham

−0.1273 − 0.0485i

Drawing the boundary…

I Am!

by John Clare

−0.1125 − 0.0187i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Rant to his Mistress

by John Oldham

By Heav'n, and all its Gods I swear,
Or if a greater Oath there be,
There's not a God inhabits there
But what would Barter all his Heav'n for thee.
Ev'n Jove himself, their Father and their King,
Would leave his Grandeur and his Throne
And turn a Bird, a Beast, or any thing;
Might he possess but thee alone.

I swear there is no greater Happiness,
Or if there be, I can no greater guess,
Then 'tis to sit and gaze
On the rare Beauties of thy face:
Ev'n Heav'n it self would that fair Prospect prize
And look for ever with unwearied view,
And tho it look'd with all its Eyes
'Twould still confess 'em all too few.

They say, 'tis all the Heav'n the Blessed know
To view the Mirror of the Deity;
I'm sure 'tis all my Heav'n below
To look on thee,
That's here the Beatifick Sight to me,
And 'tis my Hell when I thy Presence must forgo.

To read my Destinies,
I'll not consult the Planets of the Skies,
But those more radiant Stars thine Eyes;
If these appear benign,
Let other Stars with any Aspect shine;
So we are in Conjunction,
I fear not theirs, nor what it can portend,
My Fates on that, not this depend,
They all depend on that alone.

I Am!

by John Clare

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

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