Poem fractal

Side by side

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0.033 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 Voice of Him I Love

by Amelia Alderson Opie

0.3533 − 0.6102i

Drawing the boundary…

Pluck the fruit and taste the pleasure

by Thomas Lodge

0.3846 − 0.5995i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Voice of Him I Love

by Amelia Alderson Opie

Hence far from me, ye senseless joys
That fade before ye reach the heart,
The crowded dome's distracted noise,
Where all is pomp and useless art!

Give me my home, to quiet dear,
Where hours untold and peaceful move;
So fate ordain I sometimes there
May hear the voice of him I love.

I hate e'en music's pleasing power
When giddy crowds my tones attend,
But love to sing at evening's hour
Too sooth the sorrows of a friend.

I love to breathe the plaintive lays
That Henry's heart and taste approve,
For, oh! how sweet in tones of praise
Appears the voice of him I love!

The praises I from others hear
Some joy may to my pride impart,
But Henry's wake the rapturous tear,
For his applauses touch my heart.

From busy crowds o'erjoyed I fly
With him in lonely shades to rove,
For e'en in gayest scenes I sigh
To hear the voice of him I love.

I woo the drama's magic powers,
Seek music's ever-crowded shrine,
In learning pass the studious hours,
Or try the muse's wreath to twine;

Yet still I feel a joy more dear,
Though I these pure delights approve,
When in retirement's scenes I hear
The soothing voice of him I love.

Pluck the fruit and taste the pleasure

by Thomas Lodge

Pluck the fruit and taste the pleasure,
Youthful lordings, of delight;
Whilst occasion gives you seizure,
Feed your fancies and your sight:
After death, when you are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

Here on earth nothing is stable,
Fortune's changes well are known;
Whilst as youth doth then enable,
Let your seeds of joy be sown:
After death, when you are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

Feast it freely with your lovers,
Blithe and wanton sweets do fade;
Whilst that lovely Cupid hovers
Round about this lovely shade,
Sport it freely one to one;
After death is pleasure none.

Now the pleasant spring allureth,
And both place and time invites:
Out, alas! what heart endureth
To disclaim his sweet delights?
After death, when we are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

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