Poem fractal

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0.020 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

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Music's Power

by Caroline Elizabeth Sheridan

−0.0070 + 0.1639i

Drawing the boundary…

Thoughts of Phena at the News of Her Death

by Thomas Hardy

−0.0084 + 0.1839i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Music's Power

by Caroline Elizabeth Sheridan

Have you never heard, in music’s sound,
Some chords which o’er your heart
First fling a moment’s magic round,
Then silently depart?
But with the echo on the air,
Roused by that simple lay,
It leaves a world of feeling there
We cannot chase away.
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come —
Youth’s half-forgotten hopes, childhood’s remembered home.

When sitting in your silent home
You gaze around and weep,
Or call to those who cannot come
Nor wake from dreamless sleep;
Those chords, as oft as you bemoan
"The distant and the dead,"
Bring dimly back the fancied tone
Of some sweet voice that’s fled!
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come —
Youth’s half-forgotten hopes, childhood’s remembered home.

And when, amid the festal throng,
You are, or would be gay —
And seek to while, with dance and song,
Your sadder thoughts away;
They strike those chords and smiles depart,
As, rushing o’er your soul,
The untold feelings of the heart
Awake, and spurn control!
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come —
Youth’s half-forgotten hopes, childhood’s remembered home.

Thoughts of Phena at the News of Her Death

by Thomas Hardy

Not a line of her writing have I
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light
And with laughter her eyes.

What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?

Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her—fined in my brain
It may be the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.

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