Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.008 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 British Tars

by Charles Harding Firth

0.1854 + 0.8647i

Drawing the boundary…

Easter Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.1821 + 0.8724i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The British Tars

by Charles Harding Firth

Come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me,
And never leave your happy homes to sail the raging sea,
For I have ploughed the raging main this twenty years or more,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

When war at first assail'd us I quickly left my trade,
Our country was in danger, I flew to lend my aid.
And in my country's service, long, long fatigues I bore,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

By storms and raging tempest shipwreck'd three times I've been,
And many a bloody battle upon the seas I've seen;
I've seen the cannon's glaring flash, I've heard its murderous roar,
Tho' now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

The British seaman's valour to all the world is known,
We conquer still where'er we go, the action is our own.
The meteor flag of England triumphantly we bore;
But now we are turned adrift to starve upon our native shore.

Should hostile fleets e'er venture upon the raging main,
True hearts of oak we British Tars we'll push to sea again;
And bravely bring their ships to port as we have done before.
So help us now while we're in want upon our native shore.

Come pity, ye gentle strangers, a luckless British Tar,
In your defence he yet may hurl the thunderbolts of war.
Come lend some kind assistance, and heaven will bless your store,
For now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.

Easter Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

I am the dream of April, I am the soul of May, 
The sallows scatter, the sallows splatter their gold upon my way: 
The gorses swing censers of spring to honour Easter Day. 

I am the baby April, the woman May will be:
I set the berry and hang the cherry on briar and cornel-tree; 
Mine's the shut rose, the apple-blows, the rainbow on the sea. 

My tears are all of April, my laughter is of May, 
My sorrow's all a cowslip-ball, so light to toss away: 
My heart is bright with Easter light, my face is fair to see. 
Because God's risen, and out of prison the whole round world goes free. 

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