Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.045 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.

The Dawn of Day

by Amelia Alderson Opie

−0.1784 + 1.1073i

Drawing the boundary…

The neophyte, baptized in smiles

by Dylan Thomas

−0.1487 + 1.0737i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Dawn of Day

by Amelia Alderson Opie

Go, youth, by all regretted, fair Clwyd's blooming pride,
To nature's hand indebted, by fortune blest beside:
Go tempt the world's wide ocean; our prayers attend thee there,
Nor think without emotion how much we hold thee dear:
But though by great ones courted, and charm'd by flattery's tale,
To us in thought transported, remember Clwyd's vale.

Know, dangers will assail thee, and gay temptations lure,
And should thy firmness fail thee, their victim is secure:
But call to fond remembrance each far and anxious friend,
And, sure, each honour'd semblance will shields to guard thee lend.
And O! our heart's dear treasure, may we in death be pale,
When thou, with dread, not pleasure, shall think on Clwyd's vale.

The neophyte, baptized in smiles

by Dylan Thomas

The neophyte, baptized in smiles,
Is laughing boy beneath his oath,
Breathing no poison from the oval mouth,
Or evil from the cankered heart.
Where love is there’s a crust of joy 
To hide what drags its belly from the egg,
And, on the ground, gyrates as easily
As though the sun were spinning up through it.
Boy sucks no sweetness from the willing mouth,
Nothing but poison from the breath,
And, in the grief of certainty,
Knows his love rots.
Outdo your prude’s genetic faculty
That grew for good
Out of the bitter conscience and the nerves,
Not from the senses’ dualizing tip
Of water, flame, or air.
Wetten your tongue and lip,
Moisten your care to carelessness,
For she who sprinkled on your brow
Soft shining symbols of her peace with you,
Was old when you were young,
Old in illusions turned to acritudes,
And thoughts, be they so kind,
Touched, by a finger’s nail, to dust.

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