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.

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

by Robert Burns

0.2541 + 0.2442i

Drawing the boundary…

Short is my rest

by William Barley

0.2714 + 0.2090i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

by Robert Burns

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
How I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
Again in folly's path might go astray;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

Short is my rest

by William Barley

Short is my rest, whose toil is over long;
My joys are dark, but clear is seen my woe;
In safety small, great wracks I bide through wrong;
Whose time is swift, and yet my hope but slow.
Each grief and wound in my poor soul appears
That laugheth hours and weepeth many years.

Deeds of the day are fables for the night;
Sighs of desire are smokes of thoughtful tears;
My steps are false although my path is right;
Disgrace is bold, my favor full of fears.
Disquiet sleep keeps audit of my life,
Where rare content doth make displeasure rife.

The doleful clock, which is the voice of Time,
Calls on my end before my hap is seen;
Thus falls my hopes, whose harms have power to climb,
Not come to have which long in wish have been.
I trust your love, and fear not others' hate;
Be you with me and I have Caesar's fate.

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