Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.060 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.

Too Near

by Philip Bourke Marston

0.4156 + 0.1507i

Drawing the boundary…

A Lament for Flodden

by Jean Elliot

0.4365 + 0.2072i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Too Near

by Philip Bourke Marston

So close we are, and yet so far apart, —
So close, I feel thy breath upon my cheek;
So far, that all this love of mine is weak
To touch in any way thy distant heart:
So close, that, when I hear thy voice, I start
To see my whole life standing bare and bleak;
So far, that, though for years and years I seek,
I shall not find thee other than thou art!

So, while I live, I walk upon the verge
Of an impassable and changeless sea
Which more than death divides me, love, from thee;
The mournful beating of its heavy surge
Is all the music now that I shall hear:
O love, thou art too far, and yet too near!

A Lament for Flodden

by Jean Elliot

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

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