Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.020 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.

What God is like to him I serve

by Anne Bradstreet

0.0916 − 0.7217i

Drawing the boundary…

I measure every grief I meet

by Emily Dickinson

0.0715 − 0.7212i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

What God is like to him I serve

by Anne Bradstreet

What God is like to him I serve,
What Saviour like to mine?
O, never let me from thee swerve,
For truly I am thine.

My thankfull mouth shall speak thy praise, 
My Tongue shall talk of Thee:
On High my heart, O, doe thou raise,
For what thou'st done for me.

Goe, Worldlings, to your Vanities,
And heathen to your Gods;
Let them help in Adversities,
And sanctefye their rods.

My God he is not like to yours,
Your selves shall Judges bee;
I find his Love, I know his Pow'r,
A Succourer of mee.

He is not man that he should lye,
Nor son of man to unsay;
His word he plighted hath on high,
And I shall live for aye.

And for his sake that faithfull is,
That dy'd but now doth live,
The first and last, that lives for aye,
Me lasting life shall give.

I measure every grief I meet

by Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes —
I wonder if it weighs like mine —
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long —
Or did it just begin —
I could not tell the date of mine —
It feels so old a pain —

I wonder if it hurts to live —
And if they have to try —
And whether — could they choose between—
It would not be — to die —

I note that Some — gone patient long —
At length, renew their smile —
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil —

I wonder if when Years have piled —
Some Thousands — on the Harm —
That hurt them early — such a lapse
Could give them any Balm —

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve —
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love —

The Grieved — are many — I am told —
There is the various Cause —
Death — is but one — and comes but once —
And only nails the eyes —

There’s Grief of Want — and Grief of Cold —
A sort they call “Despair” —
There’s Banishment from native Eyes —
In sight of Native Air —

And though I may not guess the kind —
Correctly — yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary —

To note the fashions — of the Cross —
And how they’re mostly worn —
Still fascinated to presume
That Some — are like My Own —

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