Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.017 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.

To-Day

by Mary Webb

−0.1816 + 0.1961i

Drawing the boundary…

The Chimney-Sweeper

by William Blake

−0.1851 + 0.2125i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To-Day

by Mary Webb

Beyond the darkling sea if no fair shore
Lies, where low flutes play, where the bitter surf
Is all forgotten, and the deep sea roar;
Behind the towering, granite hill of death
If no green crown of smooth, untrodden turf
Welcomes us where the long-lashed daisies eye
The sun so ardently they cannot die,
And the wind sleeps beneath the orchard breath:

Then not for us the fugitive and fond
Dream of a following music, harmonies
Made from the human discord; for beyond
Is mist, and a voice crying — All is over!
Here is our heaven, in one another's eyes,
In children's silver laughter. Here and now
Ripe scarlet apples bend the golden bough,
The bees' low roar is in the purple clover.

The Chimney-Sweeper

by William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘Weep! weep! weep! weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

From Songs of Innocence

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