Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.070 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.

He Laments that His Love is Dead

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

0.1059 + 0.9588i

Drawing the boundary…

Holy Thursday

by William Blake

0.0624 + 0.9045i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

He Laments that His Love is Dead

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

My love is dead, dead and in spite of me,— 
Dead while I lived,—while yet my blood was rife 
With hope and pleasure and the pride of life. 
For my love ended unexpectedly 
During the Winter, stricken like a tree 
By a night's cold, and frozen to the blood, 
Whose leaves fell off and never were renewed 
By any promise of the years to be. 
And, when the Spring came, and the birds, to mate 
Among its branches, lo! they found it bare, 
Though all around was Summer in the wood. 
Yet they took heart awhile, incredulous 
That such a tree should be for ever dead. 
'Tis early yet,” they cried. “The Spring is late. 
It shall still be as in the days that were.” 
But summer came and went while the tree stood 
Bare in the sun like a deserted house. 
—Then the birds suddenly despaired and fled. 

Holy Thursday

by William Blake

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

From Songs of Innocence

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