Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.012 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.

Now

by Violet Fane

−0.4038 − 0.0860i

Drawing the boundary…

The Lords of Land and Money

by Gerald Massey

−0.3926 − 0.0887i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Now

by Violet Fane

This is!…The moments will not stay their wings;
To-morrow presses; it is still "To-day";
Shall we stretch arms and snatch at what it brings?
                                 Say, darling, say!

The great grave clock's two hands, uplifted, seem
Mutely reproachful. They will scarcely veer
One poor inch onward when our life-long dream
                                 To-day, is here!

And after?…Will it turn to dream, or less?
A fading memory to you and me?..
Nay, till we make the venture dare we guess
                                 What it will be?

This is!…The moments will not stay their wings;
To-morrow presses; it is still "To-day";
Shall we stretch arms and snatch at what it brings?
                                  Say, darling, say!

The Lords of Land and Money

by Gerald Massey

Sons of Old England, from the sod,
Uplift the noble brow!
Gold apes a mightier power than God,
And wealth is worshipt now!
In all these toil-ennobled lands
Ye have no heritage:
They snatch the fruit of youthful hands,
The staff from weary age.
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

Thro' long dark years of blood and tears,
We've toil'd like branded slaves,
Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land
Of paupers, prisons, graves!
But our long-sufferance endeth now,
Within the souls of men
The fruitful buds of promise blow,
And Freedom lives again!
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

Too long have Labor's nobles knelt
Before exalted "Rank;"
Within our souls the iron is felt—
We hear our fetters clank!
A glorious voice goes throbbing forth
From millions stirring now,
Who yet before these Gods of earth
Shall stand with unblencht brow.
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

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