Is it not fine to walk in spring, When leaves are born, and hear birds sing? And when they lose their singing powers, In summer, watch the bees at flowers? Is it not fine, when summer's past, To have the leaves, no longer fast, Biting my heel where'er I go, Or dancing lightly on my toe? Now winter's here and rivers freeze; As I walk out I see the trees, Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep, All standing in the snow so deep: And every twig, however small, Is blossomed white and beautiful. Then welcome, winter, with thy power To make this tree a big white flower; To make this tree a lovely sight, With fifty brown arms draped in white, While thousands of small fingers show In soft white gloves of purest snow.
The hurry of the times affects us so In this swift rushing hour, we crowd and press And thrust each other backward as we go, And do not pause to lay sufficient stress Upon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness. In our impetuous haste, could we but know Its full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh, Then might we grasp the secret of success! In that receding age when men were great, The bone and sinew of their purpose lay In this one word. God likes an earnest soul— Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late It leaves the spent horde breathless by the way, And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.