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.

Lines for a Picture of St. Dorothea

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

−0.1326 − 0.5742i

Drawing the boundary…

Second Love

by William Thom

−0.1501 − 0.5868i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Lines for a Picture of St. Dorothea

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I bear a basket lined with grass.
I' am so' light' and fair'
Men are amazed to watch me pass
With' the básket I bear',
Which in newly drawn green litter
Carries treats of sweet for bitter.

See my lilies: lilies none,
None in Caesar's garden blow.
Quínces, look', when' not one'
Is set in any orchard; no,
Not set because their buds not spring;
Spring not for world is wintering.

But' they came' from' the South',
Where winter-while is all forgot.—
The dew-bell in the mallow's mouth
Is' it quenchèd or not'?
In starry, starry shire it grew:
Which' is it', star' or dew'?—

That a quince I pore upon?
O no it is the sizing moon.
Now her mallow-row is gone
In tufts of evening sky.— So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul?— We see
Fruit nor flower nor Dorothy.

How to name it, blessed it!
Suiting its grace with him or her?
Dorothea—or was your writ
Sérvéd bý méssenger'?
Your parley was not done and there!
You went into the partless air.

It waned into the world of light,
Yet made its market here as well:
My eyes hold yet the rinds and bright
Remainder of a miracle.
O this is bringing! Tears may swarm
Indeed while such a wonder's warm.

Ah dip in blood the palmtree pen
And wordy warrants are flawed through.
More will wear this wand and then
The warpèd world we shall undo.
Proconsul!— Is Sapricius near?—
I find another Christian here.

Second Love

by William Thom

Oh, say not Love will never
Breathe in that breast again!
That where he bled must ever
All pleasureless remain.
Shall tempest-riven blossom,
When fair leaves fall away,
In coldness close its bosom
'Gainst beams of milder day?
Oh never, nay!
It blooms where'er it may.

Though ruthless tempest tear—
Though biting frosts subdue,
And leave no tendril where
Love's pretty flow'rets grew;
The soil all ravaged so
Will nurture more and more,
And stately roses blow
Where daisies droop'd before;
Then why, oh! why
Should sweet love ever die?

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