Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.025 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…

Forgotten

by A. A. Milne

−0.4899 − 0.9465i

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. 

Forgotten

by A. A. Milne

Lords of the Nursery
Wait in a row,
Five on the high wall,
And four on the low;
Big Kings and Little Kings,
Brown Bears and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.

Some think that John boy
Is lost in the wood,
Some say he couldn't be,
Some say he could.
Some think that John boy
Hides on the hill;
Some say he won't come back,
Some say he will.

High was the sun, when
John went away....
Here they've been waiting
All through the day;
Big Bears and Little Bears,
White Kings and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.

Lords of the Nursery
Looked down the hill,
Some saw the sheep-fold,
Some saw the mill;
Some saw the roofs
Of the little grey town....
And their shadows grew long
As the sun slipt down.

Gold between the poplars
An old moon shows;
Silver up the star-way
The full moon rose;
Silver down the star-way
The old moon crept....
And, one by another,
The grey fields slept.

Lords of the Nursery
Their still watch keep....
They hear from the sheep-fold
The rustle of sheep.
A young bird twitters
And hides its head;
A little wind suddenly
Breathes, and is dead.

Slowly and slowly
Dawns the new day....
What's become of John boy?
No one can say.
Some think that John boy
Is lost on the hill;
Some say he won't come back,
Some say he will.

What's become of John boy?
Nothing at all,
He played with his skipping rope,
He played with his ball.
He ran after butterflies,
Blue ones and red;
He did a hundred happy things - 
And then went to bed.

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