Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.022 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.

Thou Lovest No More

by Thomas Moore

0.0488 − 0.3655i

Drawing the boundary…

The Wife-Woman

by Anne Spencer

0.0541 − 0.3444i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Thou Lovest No More

by Thomas Moore

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
  Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
  Thou lovest no more—thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
  The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
  'Tis not the same—thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
  I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now—alas! there's no deceiving,
  'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
  As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
  Or bring back him who loves no more.

The Wife-Woman

by Anne Spencer

Maker-of-Sevens In the scheme of things
From earth to star;
Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and
Over the border the bar.
Though rank and fierce the mariner
Sailing the seven seas,
He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes,
Coaxing the Pleiades.

I cannot love them; and I feel your glad
Chiding from the grave,
That my all was only worth at all, what
Joy to you it gave,
These seven links the Law compelled
For the human chain—
I cannot love them; and you, oh,
Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!

A jungle there, a cave here, bred six
And a million years,
Sure and strong, mate for mate, such
Love as culture fears;
I gave you clear the oil and wine;
You saved me your hob and hearth—
See how even life may be ere the
Sickle comes and leaves a swath.

But I can wait the seven of moons,
Or years I spare,
Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend
A drop, nor share—
So long but outlives a smile and
A silken gown;
Then gayly I reach up from my shroud,
And you, glory-clad, reach down.

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