Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.024 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 Ants Go Marching One By One

by Richard

−0.1626 + 0.5335i

Drawing the boundary…

Holidays

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

−0.1562 + 0.5571i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Ants Go Marching One By One

by Richard

There's a parade in me kitchen, not of proud men in hats
But of tiny black insects, marching like bureaucrats
I've tried every trick, from spray to sticky traps
But these six-legged squatters, they're clever little chaps

Oh, the ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah
They've claimed me sugar bowl, and now they want me honey jar
I've waged a losing war, against this arthropod corps
But the ants keep marching, one by one, hurrah

I've laid out poison, placed boots 'round every leg
Of table and chair, like some mad peg-legged peg
But they build their bridges, with bodies of the dead
These kamikaze crawlers, have gone straight to me head

Now I've had an epiphany, as I watch them toil away
Cleaning up me crumbs, like a free maid service, hey!
So I'll put down me weapons, and with them I'll coexist
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em - I'm now a Myrmecologist!

The ants keep marching, one by one
In me kitchen, the battle's done
We've reached a truce, some might say it's daft
But at least now, the floor's spotless fore and aft!

Holidays

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;— 
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that out of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;—a Fairy Tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.

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