Poem fractal
0.010 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.
−0.0907 + 0.1142i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.0814 + 0.1094i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
I fear to love thee, Sweet, because
Love's the ambassador of loss;
White flake of childhood, clinging so
To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow
At tenderest touch will shrink and go.
Love me not, delightful child.
My heart, by many snares beguiled,
Has grown timorous and wild.
It would fear thee not at all,
Wert thou not so harmless-small.
Because thy arrows, not yet dire,
Are still unbarbed with destined fire,
I fear thee more than hadst thou stood
Full-panoplied in womanhood.
Within ane garth, undir a reid roseir,
Ane auld man and decrepit, hard I sing;
Gay was the not, sweit was the voce and cleir;
It was grit joy to heir of sic a thing.
And as me thocht, he said in his dyting,
'For to be yung I wald not, for my wiss
Of all this warld to mak me lord and King:
The moir of aige the nerrer hevynis bliss.
'Fals is this warld, and full of variance,
Besocht with syn and other sytis mo:
Trewth is all tynt, gyle hes the govirnance,
Wretchitness hes wrocht all weill to wo;
Fredome is tynt, and flemyt the lordis fro,
And covettyce is all the cause of thiss;
I am content that yowtheid is ago:
The moir of age the nerrer hevynis bliss.
'The stait of youth I repute for na gude,
For in that stait sic perilis now I see;
But speciall grace, the regeing of his blude
Can nane ganestand, quhill that he aigit be;
Syne of the thing befoir that joyit he
Nothing remanis now to be callit his;
For-why it was bot verry vanitie:
The moir of aige the nerrer hevynis bliss.
'Suld no man trust this wrechit world, for-quhy
Of erdly joy ay sorow is the end;
The stait of it can no man certify,
This day a king, to morne na thing to spend.
Quhat haif we heir bot grace us to defend?
The quhilk God grant us till mend our miss,
That to His gloir He ma our saulis send;
The moir of aige the nerrer hevynis bliss.'
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.
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