Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.026 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.

The Spindle Song

by Sir Walter Scott

−0.2288 − 0.6946i

Drawing the boundary…

Silver Spoils

by Grace Fallow Norton

−0.2541 − 0.7021i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Spindle Song

by Sir Walter Scott

Twist ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain,
Pleasures soon exchang'd for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear.

Now they wax, and now they dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle.
Twist ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle human bliss and woe.

Silver Spoils

by Grace Fallow Norton

And if the creature moils and toils
What is it to this song?
This is a song of silver spoils,
Caught swinging along.

Last night I walked the city street,
Wearing a woman's veil.
Then there was laughter; then there were feet;
Then there was silver hail

And harps and shaking silver bells
And flutes within my brain;
I stood beside deep silver wells;
I said, "We rise again!"

Love, let no light moon ever rise
Until my joy has risen!
I could not suffer heaven's surprise,
Finding me in prison!

Mirth, let no mad moon ever sweep
Heaven, nor find my floor
Swept where I have leaped from sleep
And danced before the door!

Light, let no white moon hunt through heaven
Till I am hunting too!
When the silver bow is given
My thoughts are arrows true,

And when she stalks the starry plains
To fill her silver bowl,
I laugh in narrow lamplit lanes,
A silver sallying soul!

Huntress, huntress, hold it high,
Your globe of silver fire,
And I will draw and pierce the sky
And lift a star from the mire!

And if my hand be stained by the dye
Wherein all day it toils,
Still I come home beneath the sky
Bearing silver spoils.

You did not guess me, swinging along?
But if me my toil had tamed,
I could not tell you in a song,
For I should be ashamed!

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content