Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.011 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.

Lament for the Crinoline's Flame

by Richard

−0.0602 − 0.5148i

Drawing the boundary…

To Roses in the Bosome of Castara

by William Habington

−0.0574 − 0.5253i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Lament for the Crinoline's Flame

by Richard

Oh, garments vast, with folds that sweep,
Like ocean waves in twilight deep,
Thy beauty hides a dreadful snare,
A fiery fate beyond compare.

The crinoline, with pride adorned,
A queenly frame by fashion mourned,
Yet in thy breadth, the embers lie,
A spark to doom, a flame to die.

See Fanny’s hands with waxen seal,
Her dress ignites—no time to heal.
The poet weeps; his muse is stilled,
By fire’s cruel hand, her life was killed.

Oscar’s sisters danced in mirth,
Their gowns aflame—a cursed birth.
The laughter turned to cries of pain,
As fire consumed the silken train.

O fashion’s folly! O vanity’s cost!
So many lives so cruelly lost.
The forest primeval mourns thy plight,
Its pines and hemlocks wail at night.

Let us not forget their cries,
The women caught in flame that flies.
A lesson learned from beauty’s bane:
Beware the spark; resist the flame.

So sing we now this somber tune,
Beneath the stars and waning moon.
For those who danced in fire's embrace,
May peace be theirs in heaven's grace.

To Roses in the Bosome of Castara

by William Habington

Yee blushing Virgins happie are
In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,
For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,
Who ere should call them Cupids nests.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,
How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?
In some close garden, Cowslips so
Are sweeter then i' th' open field.

In those white Cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each houre more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you roome,
Your glorious sepulcher shall be.
There wants no marble for a tombe,
Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

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