Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.005 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.

O! there are spirits of the air

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

−0.2167 − 0.1669i

Drawing the boundary…

Helen of Troy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.2192 − 0.1709i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

O! there are spirits of the air

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

O! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:—
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth:—tame sacrifice
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands?

Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
The glory of the moon is dead;
Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase;—the mad endeavour
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

Helen of Troy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

I am that Helen, that very Helen 
Of Leda, born in the days of old: 
Men's hearts were as inns that I might dwell in: 
Houseless I wander to-night, and cold. 

Because man loved me, no God takes pity: 
My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen! 
Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city, 
My golden couches, my hangings green! 

Wasted with fire are the halls they built me, 
And sown with salt are the streets I trod, 
Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me- 
Alas, that Zeus is a jealous God! 

Softly I went on my sandals golden j 
Of love and pleasure I took my fill; 
With Paris' kisses my lids were holden, 
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will, 
That the Fates behind me went softlier still. 

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