Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.032 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 Dungeon

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

−0.4055 + 0.7005i

Drawing the boundary…

The Passion Flower

by Anne Whitney

−0.3932 + 0.7300i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Dungeon

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivel’d up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till chang’d to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapor of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmolds its essence, hopelessly deform’d
By sights of evermore deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distemper’d child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Will he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz’d
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

The Passion Flower

by Anne Whitney

The cross, the thorns, the cruel nails again!
Thus opens God's diviner flower of Day
To thee, Flower-giver: was no better way
Found out, whereby thou early should'st obtain,
What others seek through life-long years in vain,
Peace and a large, sweet charity, than this
Which that stern angel points thee to, whose kiss
Of consecration on thy brow is PAIN.
I weep consenting—knowing well that so
God tempers to a more than mortal fineness
O Friend, so high in sorrow—be not mindless
I keep for thee a heart-warm rest below;
With hopes and human yearnings, wilt thou know?
It shall not mar thy strength or thy divineness.

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