Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.028 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.

The Invitation

by Robert Herrick

−0.1339 + 1.2340i

Drawing the boundary…

Kinsey Keene

by Edgar Lee Masters

−0.1059 + 1.2287i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Invitation

by Robert Herrick

To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,
And mad'st a promise that mine appetite
Should meet and tire, on such lautitious meat,
The like not Heliogabalus did eat:
And richer wine would'st give to me, thy guest,
Than Roman Sylla pour'd out at his feast.
I came, 'tis true, and look'd for fowl of price,
The bastard Phoenix; bird of Paradise;
And for no less than aromatic wine
Of maidens-blush, commix'd with jessamine.
Clean was the hearth, the mantle larded jet,
Which, wanting Lar and smoke, hung weeping wet;
At last i' th' noon of winter, did appear
A ragg'd soused neats-foot, with sick vinegar;
And in a burnish'd flagonet, stood by
Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.
At which amazed, and pond'ring on the food,
How cold it was, and how it chill'd my blood,
I curst the master, and I damn'd the souce,
And swore I'd got the ague of the house.
—Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire,
I'll bring a fever, since thou keep'st no fire.

Kinsey Keene

by Edgar Lee Masters

Your attention, Thomas Rhodes, president of the bank;
Coolbaugh Whedon, editor of the Argus;
Rev. Peet, pastor of the leading church;
A. D. Blood, several times Mayor of Spoon River;
And finally all of you, members of the Social Purity Club—
Your attention to Cambronne's dying words,
Standing with the heroic remnant
Of Napoleon's guard on Mount Saint Jean
At the battlefield of Waterloo,
When Maitland, the Englishman, called to them,
"Surrender, brave Frenchmen!"—
There at close of day, with the battle hopelessly lost,
And hordes of men, no longer the army
Of the great Napoleon,
Streamed from the field like ragged strips
Of thunder clouds in the storm.
Well, what Cambronne said to Maitland,
Ere the English fire made smooth the brow of the hill
Against the sinking light of day,
Say I to you, and all of you,
And to you, O world.
And I charge you to carve it
Upon my stone.

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