Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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.

Telling the Bees

by Frederic William Moorman

0.5456 − 0.0004i

Drawing the boundary…

Morgiana in England

by Leigh Hunt

0.5637 + 0.0016i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Telling the Bees

by Frederic William Moorman

Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon, an' fine havver-bread.
But toom' is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Look, conny bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay;
Or, mebbe, you'll leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Sitha! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone;
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Morgiana in England

by Leigh Hunt

Oh, one that I know is a knavish lass, 
Though she looks so sweet and simple; 
Her eyes there are none can safely pass, 
And it's wrong to trust her dimple. 
So taking the jade was by Nature made,
So finished in all fine thieving, 
She'll e'en look away what you wanted to say,
And smile you out of your grieving.

To see her, for instance, go down a dance,
You'd think you sat securely,
There's nothing about her of forward France,
And nothing done over demurely: 
But Lord! she goes with so blithe a repose,
And comes so shapely about you, 
That ere you're aware, with a glance and an air
She whisks your heart from out you.

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content