Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.039 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.

Marital Ardour in Age

by Richard

−0.3181 + 0.0777i

Drawing the boundary…

What Is Love?

by Thomas Paine

−0.2798 + 0.0717i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Marital Ardour in Age

by Richard

Oh! if they marvel at my fervent gaze,
Though youth’s swift pulse has tempered in its pace,
They know not how love deepens through the days,
Nor how its fire refines with time’s embrace.

For beauty blooms not only in the face,
But in the soul that kindness does adorn;
Each line upon her brow, a sacred trace,
Of joys we’ve shared and trials we have borne.

Her laughter rings as sweet as springtime’s song,
Her wisdom glows like autumn’s golden hue;
And though the years may stretch both wide and long,
My heart beats ever ardent, strong, and true.

Till death shall call me to eternal rest,
My love shall burn as brightly as the sun;
For in her grace, I’ve found life’s very best—
A passion that will last till all is done.

What Is Love?

by Thomas Paine

'Tis that delightful transport we can feel,
Which painters cannot paint, or words reveal.
Nor any art we know of,—can conceal.
Canst thou describe the sun-beams to the blind,
Or make him feel a shadow with his mind?
So neither can we by description show
This first of all felicities below.

When happy Love pours magic o'er the soul,
And all our thoughts in sweet delirium roll;
When Contemplation spreads its rainbow wings,
And every flutter some new rapture brings;
How sweetly then our moments glide away,
And dreams repeat the raptures of the day;
We live in ecstasy to all things kind,
For love can teach a moral to the mind.
But are there not some other marks that prove,
What is this wonder of the soul, call'd love?

O yes, there are, but of a different kind,
The dreadful horrors of a dismal mind.
Some jealous fury throws her poison'd dart,
And rends in pieces the distracted heart,

When love's a tyrant, and the soul a slave,
No hopes remain to thought, but in the grave;
In that dark den, it sees an end to grief,
And what was once its dread, becomes relief.

What are the iron chains that hands have wrought?
The hardest chains to break, are those of thought.
Think well of this, ye lovers, and be kind,
Nor play with torture—or a tortured mind.

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