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.
Myriad Roses, unregretted, perish in their vernal bloom, That the essence of their sweetness once your Beauty may perfume.
Myriad Veins of richest life-blood empty forth their priceless worth, To exalt one Will imperial over spacious realms of earth.
Myriad Hearts are pained and broken that one Poet may be taught To discern the shapes of passion and describe them as he ought.
Myriad Minds of heavenly temper pass as passes moon or star, That one philosophic Spirit may ascend the solar car.
Sacrifice and Self-devotion hallow earth and fill the skies, And the meanest Life is sacred whence the highest may arise.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.