Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.034 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.

Stanzas of Sorrow

by Amelia Alderson Opie

−0.6585 − 0.4717i

Drawing the boundary…

Pocahontas

by William Makepeace Thackeray

−0.6264 − 0.4600i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Stanzas of Sorrow

by Amelia Alderson Opie

Methinks there is a fearful blight,
Gone forth o'er all the things that be,
And darken'd seems the noon-day light,
And strangely still the restless sea.

The summer sun has lost its heat,
The sky has lost its lovely blue,
The roses smell no longer sweet,
And rayless seems the glittering dew.

The sky-lark's strain no more is gay,
But seems the trembling tone of woe;
The languid sheep no longer play,
The streams no longer seem to flow.

Whence spreads this awful change around,
Which thus with fearful eye I see?
But is the change by others found?
No—nought on earth is chang'd—but me.

For there's a blight within my heart,
That's thence transferr'd to nature's face;
When shall this painful blight depart,
And nature wear its wonted grace?

When ardent love is chill'd and cold,
And dead as all the hopes it gave—
But when shall I that day behold
When I shall fill my peaceful grave?

Pocahontas

by William Makepeace Thackeray

Wearied arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight:
Round him press a countless horde,
He is but a single knight.
Hark! a cry of triumph shrill
Through the wilderness resounds,
As, with twenty bleeding wounds,
Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre,
And the torch of death they light;
Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!
Who will shield the captive knight?
Round the stake with fiendish cry
Wheel and dance the savage crowd,
Cold the victim's mien, and proud,
And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?
Who avert the murderous blade?
From the throng, with sudden start,
See there springs an Indian maid.
Quick she stands before the knight:
"Loose the chain, unbind the ring;
I am daughter of the king,
And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings
Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
Fondly to his heart she clings,
And her bosom guards his life!
In the woods of Powhattan,
Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
Saved the captive Englishman.

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