Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.025 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 Lesson in Latin

by Lewis Carroll

−0.0239 − 0.3573i

Drawing the boundary…

The Cry of the Dreamer

by John Boyle O'Reilly

−0.0151 − 0.3810i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Lesson in Latin

by Lewis Carroll

Our Latin books, in motley row,
Invite us to our task—
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there's one verb, when once we know,
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above—
We've learned "'Amare' means 'to love'!"

So, hour by hour, from flower to flower,
We sip the sweets of Life:
Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes
Proclaim the dawn of strife:
With half a smile and half a sigh,
"Amare! Bitter One!" we cry.

Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
"Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn"—
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
"No thorn without a rose!"
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!

The Cry of the Dreamer

by John Boyle O'Reilly

I am tired of planning and toiling 
In the crowded hives of men; 
Heart-weary of building and spoiling, 
And spoiling and building again. 
And I long for the dear old river, 
Where I dreamed my youth away; 
For a dreamer lives forever, 
And a toiler dies in a day. 

I am sick of the showy seeming 
Of a life that is half a lie; 
Of the faces lined with scheming 
In the throng that hurries by. 
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor, 
I would go where the children play; 
For a dreamer lives forever, 
And a thinker dies in a day. 

I can feel no pride, but pity 
For the burdens the rich endure; 
There is nothing sweet in the city 
But the patient lives of the poor. 
Oh, the little hands too skillful, 
And the child-mind choked with weeds! 
The daughter's heart grown willful, 
And the father's heart that bleeds! 

No, no! from the street's rude bustle, 
From trophies of mart and stage, 
I would fly to the woods' low rustle 
And the meadows' kindly page. 
Let me dream as of old by the river, 
And be loved for the dream alway; 
For a dreamer lives forever, 
And a toiler dies in a day. 

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