Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.025 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.

Tried and True

by Phoebe Cary

−0.0195 − 0.4715i

Drawing the boundary…

A Wasted Land

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

−0.0292 − 0.4942i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Tried and True

by Phoebe Cary

Our life is like a march, where some
Fall early from the ranks, and die;
And some, when times of conflict come,
Go over to the enemy.

And he who halts upon the way —
Wearied in spirit and in frame —
To call his roll of friends, will find
How few make answer to their name!

And those who share our youth and joy,
Not always keep our love and trust,
When days of awful anguish bow
Our heads with sorrow to the dust.

My friend! in such a fearful hour,
When heart and spirit sank dismayed,
From thee the words of comfort came —
From thee, the true and tender aid.

Therefore, though many another friend
With youth and youthful pleasure goes,
Thou art of such as I would have
Walk with me till life's solemn close.

Yea, with me when earth's trials are done, —
If I be found, when these shall cease,
Worthy to stand with those who wear
White raiment on the hills of peace.

A Wasted Land

by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Alas, for a sound is heard
Of a bitterly broken song;
Grievous is every word;
And the burden is weary and long
Like the waves between ebb and flow;
And it comes when the winds are low,
Or whenever the night is nigh,
And the world hath space for a sigh.

It was in the time of fruit;
When the peach began to pout,
And the purple grape to shine,
And the leaves were a threadbare suit
For the blushing blood of the vine,
And the spoilers were about
And the viper glode at the root:

—She came, and with her hand,
With her mouth, yea, and her eyes
She hath ravaged all the land;
Its beauty shall no more rise:
She hath drawn the wine to her lip.
For a mere wanton sip:
Lo, where the vine-branch lies;
Lo, where the drained grapes drip.

Her feet left many a stain;
And her lips left many a sting;
She will never come again,
And the fruit of everything
Is a canker or a pain:
And a memory doth crouch
Like an asp,—yea, in each part
Where she hath left her touch,—
Lying in wait for the heart.

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