Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.016 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.

Vanity of Vanities

by Helen Hunt Jackson

0.2697 − 0.4207i

Drawing the boundary…

A Ghost

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.2819 − 0.4099i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Vanity of Vanities

by Helen Hunt Jackson

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Red clover's sweetest, well the bee knows;
No bee can suck it; lonely it blows.

Deep lies its honey, out of reach, deep;
What use in honey hidden to keep?

Robbed in the autumn, starving for bread;
Who stops to pity a honey-bee dead?

Star-flames are brightest, blazing the skies;
Only a hand's-breadth the moth-wing flies.

Fooled with a candle, scorched with a breath;
Poor little miller, a tawdry death!

Life is a honey, life is a flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Swinging and circling, face to the sun,
Brief little planet, how it doth run!

Bee-time and moth-time, add the amount;
White heat and honey, who keeps the count?

Gone some fine evening, a spark out-tost!
The world no darker for one star lost!

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?

A Ghost

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Now come and haunt my quiet room 
With light and shade and red-rose bloom: 
Light of your healing eyes and shade 
Of dark hair free from knot and braid. 
Like lips with some sweet word that part 
A red rose opens on your heart. 

Out of your peace be manifest,
Into the dulness of my rest. 
I shall not win at all my heaven 
If no least glimmer of you leaven 
My loneliness. Come to me, Dear, 
Lest I should grow contented here. 

Brighten again my dusty books 
With kindness of your gracious looks 
Renew the youth of my dim air 
With your deep smile, that is aware 
Of patience (borage in life's wine), 
And stronger love than this of mine. 

Ay, stronger love that would descend 
Into the pit to save a friend,
Or serve, not saving; love that cleaves 
Even when faith no more believes,
I love till death, past judgment you — 
Is He not kind that made you true? 

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