Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.012 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 Badger

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.5148 − 0.9414i

Drawing the boundary…

Eve

by Ralph Hodgson

−0.5081 − 0.9320i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Badger

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

Last of the night's quaint clan 
He goes his way— 
A simple gentleman 
In sober grey: 
To match lone paths of his 
In woodlands dim, 
The moons of centuries 
Have silvered him. 

Deep in the damp, fresh earth 
He roots and rolls, 
And builds his winter girth 
Of sylvan tolls: 
When seek the husbandmen 
The furrow brown, 
He hies him to his den 
And lays him down. 

There may he rest for me, 
Nor ever stir 
For clamorous obloquy 
Of terrier: 
Last of the night's quaint clan 
He curls in peace— 
A friendly gentleman 
In grey pelisse. 

Eve

by Ralph Hodgson

Eve, with her basket, was
Deep in the bells and grass,
Wading in bells and grass
Up to her knees,
Picking a dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Down in the bells and grass
Under the trees.

Mute as a mouse in a
Corner the cobra lay,
Curled round a bough of the
Cinnamon tall….
Now to get even and
Humble proud heaven and
Now was the moment or
Never at all.

"Eva!" Each syllable
Light as a flower fell,
"Eva!" he whispered the
Wondering maid,
Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
"Eva!" he said.

Picture that orchard sprite,
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips,
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,
Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.

Oh had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!
Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.

Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he
Telling his story low….
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.

Oh what a chatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!
How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied
Poor motherless Eve!

Picture her crying
Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain….
Picture the lewd delight
Under the hill to-night —
"Eva!" the toast goes round,
"Eva!" again.

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