Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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.

A Lady with a Falcon on Her Fist

by Richard Lovelace

0.1790 − 0.4773i

Drawing the boundary…

Lover of Music to his Pianoforte

by Leigh Hunt

0.1955 − 0.4693i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Lady with a Falcon on Her Fist

by Richard Lovelace

                    I.
This Queen of Prey (now prey to you),
  Fast to that pirch of ivory
In silver chaines and silken clue,
  Hath now made full thy victory:

                    II.
The swelling admirall of the dread
  Cold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire!
Wast not enough, but thou must lead
  Bound, too, the Princesse of the aire?

                    III.
Unarm'd of wings and scaly oare,
  Unhappy crawler on the land,
To what heav'n fly'st? div'st to what shoare,
  That her brave eyes do not command?

                    IV.
Ascend the chariot of the Sun
  From her bright pow'r to shelter thee:
Her captive (foole) outgases him;
  Ah, what lost wretches then are we!

                    V.
Now, proud usurpers on the right
  Of sacred beauty, heare your dombe;
Recant your sex, your mastry, might;
  Lower you cannot be or'ecome:

                    VI.
Repent, ye er'e nam'd he or head,
  For y' are in falcon's monarchy,
And in that just dominion bred,
  In which the nobler is the shee.

Lover of Music to his Pianoforte

by Leigh Hunt

Oh friend, whom glad or grave we seek, 
Heaven-holding shrine! 
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak, 
And peace is mine. 
No fairy casket full of bliss,
Out-values thee: 
Love only, wakened with a kiss, 
More sweet may be.

To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow
In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe
A fitting voice: 
Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,
And Memory dear. 
And Sorrow, with his tightened breast,
Comes for a tear.

Oh since few joys of human mould
Thus wait us still, 
Thrice blessed be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will. 
No change, no sullenness, no cheat,
In thee we find; 
Thy saddest voice is ever sweet, —
Thine answer, kind.

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