Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.003 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.

Friendship’s Mystery, To my Dearest Lucasia

by Katherine Philips

0.1408 − 0.5332i

Drawing the boundary…

The Joyful Widower

by Robert Burns

0.1410 − 0.5304i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Friendship’s Mystery, To my Dearest Lucasia

by Katherine Philips

Come, my Lucasia, since we see
That Miracles Men's faith do move,
By wonder and by prodigy
To the dull angry world let’s prove
There’s a Religion in our Love.

For though we were design’d t’ agree,
That Fate no liberty destroyes,
But our Election is as free
As Angels, who with greedy choice
Are yet determin’d to their joyes.

Our hearts are doubled by the loss,
Here Mixture is Addition grown;
We both diffuse, and both ingross:
And we whose minds are so much one,
Never, yet ever are alone.

We court our own Captivity
Than Thrones more great and innocent:
’Twere banishment to be set free,
Since we wear fetters whose intent
Not Bondage is, but Ornament.

Divided joyes are tedious found,
And griefs united easier grow:
We are our selves but by rebound,
And all our Titles shuffled so,
Both Princes, and both Subjects too.

Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid,
While they (such power in Friendship lies)
Are Altars, Priests, and Off’rings made:
And each Heart which thus kindly dies,
Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.

The Joyful Widower

by Robert Burns

I married with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together;
At length from me her course she steer'd,
And gone I know not whither:
Would I could guess, I do profess,
I speak, and do not flatter,
Of all the woman in the world,
I never could come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave does hide her;
But sure her soul is not in hell,
The deil would ne'er abide her.
I rather think she is aloft,
And imitating thunder;
For why,—methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.

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