Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.028 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.

Prayer

by John Masefield

−0.5079 + 1.0170i

Drawing the boundary…

The East Wind

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.5035 + 1.0446i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Prayer

by John Masefield

When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,
When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,
When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,
Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!

And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,
In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;
Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under
To the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.

And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,
Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam
About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering
Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.

The East Wind

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The white wind of the South it blows from far away,
The black wind of the North from the gates of Hell is driven,
The gray wind of the West, maybe she blows from Heaven, 
But the red wind, the East wind's the wind of the judgment day, 

The white wind and the gray wind they bring the kindly rain,
The black wind and the gray wind they carry storm and snow; 
But when the East wind's blowing, the sleeping dead they know 
By the breath upon their feet that 'tis time to rise again. 

No ghost can wake from slumber when the North and West winds blow; 
The dead lie still and stir not, in their yellowing cerecloths bound; 
But when the East wind rustles the dead leaves above ground, 
It is the dead men's holiday, and back to earth they go. 

They open close-sealed chambers, and they rustle up the stairs; 
They enter hearts that know them and hearts that have forgot: 
They leave beside love's rosemary tear-wet forget-me-not, 
For the East's the wind of memory, and nothing else is theirs.

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