Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.023 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.

Pre-Existence

by Barry Cornwall

−0.2323 − 0.7952i

Drawing the boundary…

The Windmill

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

−0.2456 − 0.8134i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Pre-Existence

by Barry Cornwall

I laid me down upon the shore 
And dreamed a little space; 
I heard the great waves break and roar; 
The sun was on my face. 
 
My idle hands and fingers brown 
Played with the pebbles grey; 
The waves came up, the waves went down, 
Must thundering and gay. 
 
The pebbles, they were smooth and round 
And warm upon my hands, 
Like little people I had found 
Sitting among the sands. 
 
The grains of sand so shining-small 
Soft through my fingers ran; 
The sun shone down upon it all, 
And so my dream began: 
 
How all of this had been before: 
How ages far away 
I lay on some forgotten shore 
As here I lie today. 
 
The waves came shining up the sands, 
As here today they shine; 
And in my pre-Pelasgian hands 
The sand was warm and fine. 
 
I have forgotten whence I came, 
Or what my home might be, 
Or by what strange and savage name 
I called that thundering sea. 
 
I only know the sun shone down 
As still it shines today, 
And in my fingers long and brown 
The little pebbles lay.

The Windmill

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.

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