Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.013 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.

Would I might go far over sea

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

−0.2813 − 0.4077i

Drawing the boundary…

The Haunted Palace

by Edgar Allan Poe

−0.2819 − 0.4204i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Would I might go far over sea

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Would I might go far over sea, 
My Love, or high above the air, 
And come to land or heaven with thee, 
Where no law is and none shall be 
Against beholding the most rare 
Strange beauty that thou hast for me.

Alas, for, in this bitter land,
Full many a written curse doth stand 
Against the kiss thy lips should bear ;
Against the sweet gift of thy hand; 
Against the knowing that thou art fair, 
And too fond loving of thy hair!

The Haunted Palace

by Edgar Allan Poe

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh—but smile no more.

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