Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.020 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.

There Is No God

by Arthur Hugh Clough

−0.1909 − 0.7037i

Drawing the boundary…

Idle Verse

by Henry Vaughan

−0.2007 − 0.7214i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

There Is No God

by Arthur Hugh Clough

"There is no God," the wicked saith,
   "And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
   It's better only guessing."

"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
   "or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
   Always to be a baby."

"There is no God, or if there is,"
   The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
   To make a little money."

"Whether there be," the rich man says,
   "It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
   Are not in want of victual."

Some others, also, to themselves,
   Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
   And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
   The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
   And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,
   So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
   Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost everyone when age,
   Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
   Or something very like Him.

Idle Verse

by Henry Vaughan

Go, go, quaint follies, sugared sin,
Shadow no more my door;
I will no longer cobwebs spin,
I'm too much on the score.

For since amidst my youth, and night,
My great preserver smiles,
We'll make a match, my only light,
And join against their wiles;

Blind, desperate fits, that study how
To dress, and trim our shame,
That gild rank poison, and allow
Vice in a fairer name;

The purls of youthful blood, and bowels,
Lust in the robes of love,
The idle talk of feverish souls
Sick with a scarf, or glove;

Let it suffice my warmer days
Simpered, and shined on you,
Twist not my cypress with your bays,
Or roses with my yew;

Go, go, seek out some greener thing,
It snows, and freezeth here;
Let nightingales attend the spring,
Winter is all my year.

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