Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.039 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.

Valiant Love

by Richard Lovelace

0.0445 + 0.2539i

Drawing the boundary…

Sonnet in Dialectic

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

0.0282 + 0.2185i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Valiant Love

by Richard Lovelace

Now fie upon that everlasting life! I die!
She hates! Ah me! It makes me mad;
As if love fired his torch at a moist eye,
Or with his joys e’er crowned the sad.
Oh, let me live and shout, when I fall on;
Let me e’en triumph in the first attempt!
Love’s duellist from conquest’s not exempt,
When his fair murderess shall not gain one groan,
And he expire e’en in ovation.

Let me make my approach, when I lie down
With counter-wrought and traversed eyes;
With peals of confidence batter the town;
Had ever beggar yet the keys?
No, I will vary storms with sun and wind;
Be rough, and offer calm condition;
March in and plead, or starve the garrison.
Let her make sallies hourly: yet I’ll find
(Though all beat off) she’s to be undermined.

Then may it please your little excellence
Of hearts to ordain, by sound of lips,
That henceforth none in tears dare love commence
(Her thoughts i’th’ full, his, in th’ eclipse);
On pain of having’s lance broke on her bed,
That he be branded all free beauties’ slave,
And his own hollow eyes be doomed his grave:
Since in your host that coward ne’er was fed,
Who to his prostrate e’er was prostrated.

Sonnet in Dialectic

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

And is indeed truth beauty?—at the cost
Of all else that we cared for, can this be?—
To see the coarse triumphant, and to see
Honour and pity ridiculed, and tossed
Upon a poked-at fire; all courage lost
Save what is whelped and fattened by decree
To move among the unsuspecting free
And trap the thoughtful, with their thoughts engrossed?

Drag yet that stream for Beauty, if you will;
And find her, if you can; finding her drowned
Will not dismay your ethics,—you will still
To one and all insist she has been found . . .
And haggard men will smile your praise, until,
Some day, they stumble on her burial-mound.

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