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.

Blight

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.2049 − 0.7391i

Drawing the boundary…

Idle Verse

by Henry Vaughan

−0.2007 − 0.7214i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Blight

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hard seeds of hate I planted
That should by now be grown,—
Rough stalks, and from thick stamens
A poisonous pollen blown,
And odours rank, unbreathable,
From dark corollas thrown!

At dawn from my damp garden
I shook the chilly dew;
The thin boughs locked behind me
That sprang to let me through;
The blossoms slept,—I sought a place
Where nothing lovely grew.

And there, when day was breaking,
I knelt and looked around:
The light was near, the silence
Was palpitant with sound;
I drew my hate from out my breast
And thrust it in the ground.

Oh, ye so fiercely tended,
Ye little seeds of hate!
I bent above your growing
Early and noon and late,
Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,—
I cannot rear ye straight!

The sun seeks out my garden,
No nook is left in shade,
No mist nor mould nor mildew
Endures on any blade,
Sweet rain slants under every bough:
Ye falter, and ye fade.

Idle Verse

by Henry Vaughan

Go, go, quaint follies, sugared sin,
Shadow no more my door;
I will no longer cobwebs spin,
I'm too much on the score.

For since amidst my youth, and night,
My great preserver smiles,
We'll make a match, my only light,
And join against their wiles;

Blind, desperate fits, that study how
To dress, and trim our shame,
That gild rank poison, and allow
Vice in a fairer name;

The purls of youthful blood, and bowels,
Lust in the robes of love,
The idle talk of feverish souls
Sick with a scarf, or glove;

Let it suffice my warmer days
Simpered, and shined on you,
Twist not my cypress with your bays,
Or roses with my yew;

Go, go, seek out some greener thing,
It snows, and freezeth here;
Let nightingales attend the spring,
Winter is all my year.

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