Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.080 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.

Work Without Hope

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

−0.1579 + 0.8486i

Drawing the boundary…

The King of Ireland's Son

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.0820 + 0.8727i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Work Without Hope

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.

The King of Ireland's Son

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Now all away to Tir na n'Og are many roads that run, 
But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of Ireland's son. 

There's roads of hate, and roads of love, and many a middle way, 
And castles keep the valleys deep where happy lovers stray — 

Where Aongus goes there's many a rose burns red mid shadows dun, 
No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ireland's son. 

And yonder where the sun is high Love laughs amid the hay, 
But smile and sigh have passed him by, and never make delay. 

And here (and O! the sun is low!) they're glad for harvest won, 
But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of Ireland's son! 

And you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck it yet: 
But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset? 

Oh, what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianan sidhe? 
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drowsily? 

The star is yours to win or lose, and me the dusk has won, 
He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son. 

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