In that I loved you, Love, I worshipped you. In that I worshipped well, I sacrificed. All of most worth I bound and burnt and slew: Old peaceful lives; frail flowers; firm friends; and Christ.
I slew all falser loves; I slew all true, That I might nothing love but your truth, Boy. Fair fame I cast away as bridegrooms do Their wedding garments in their haste of joy.
But when I fell upon your sandalled feet, You laughed; you loosed away my lips; you rose. I heard the singing of your wings' retreat; Far-flown, I watched you flush the Olympian snows, Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned To stare upon the ash of all I burned.
How like a star you rose upon my life, Shedding fair radiance o'er my darkened hour! At your uprise swift fled the turbid strife Of grief and fear,—so mighty was your power! And I must weep that you now disappear, Casting eclipse upon my cheerless night— My heaven deserting for another sphere, Shedding elsewhere your aye-regretted light.
An Hesperus no more to gild my eve, You glad the morning of another heart; And my fond soul must mutely learn to grieve, While thus from every joy it swells apart. Yet I may worship still those gentle beams, Though not on me they shed their silver rain; And thought of you may linger in my dreams, And Memory pour balm upon my pain.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.