Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.009 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.

To One in Paradise

by Edgar Allan Poe

−0.1063 − 0.6196i

Drawing the boundary…

A Little Boy Lost

by William Blake

−0.1156 − 0.6213i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To One in Paradise

by Edgar Allan Poe

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"—but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more—no more—no more"—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!

Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!

A Little Boy Lost

by William Blake

'Nought loves another as itself,
    Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
    A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you
    Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
    That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
    In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
    And all admired his priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
    'Lo, what a fiend is here!' said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
    Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
    The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
    And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place
    Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
    Are such things done on Albion's shore?

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content