Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.031 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 Methodist

by Thomas Chatterton

−0.0762 + 0.8425i

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.

The Methodist

by Thomas Chatterton

Says Tom to Jack, 'Tis very odd,
These representatives of God,
In colour, way of life, and evil,
Should be so very like the devil'.
Jack, understand, was one of those 
Who mould religion in the nose,
A red-hot Methodist; his face 
Was full of puritanic grace,
His loose lank hair, his slow gradation, 
Declared a late regeneration;
Among the daughters long renowned.
For standing upon holy ground;
Never in carnal battle beat,
Though sometimes forced to a retreat.
But Catcott, hero as he is,
Knight of incomparable phiz,
When pliant doxy seems to yield, 
Courageously forsakes the field.
Jack, or to write more gravely, John, 
Through hills of Wesley's works had gone; 
Could sing one hundred hymns by rote, 
Hymns which will sanctify the throat:
But some indeed composed so oddly,
You’d swear 'twas bawdy songs made godly.

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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