Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.010 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 Gardener's Cat

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.4280 − 0.5360i

Drawing the boundary…

The Miller’s Daughter

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

−0.4198 − 0.5311i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Gardener's Cat

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

The gardener's cat's called Mignonette, 
She hates the cold, she hates the wet, 
She sits among the hothouse flowers 
And sleeps for hours and hours and hours. 

She dreams she is a tiger fierce 
With great majestic claws that pierce. 
She sits by the hot-water pipes 
And dreams about a coat of stripes; 

And in her slumbers she will go 
And stalk the sullen buffalo, 
And when he roars across the brake 
She does not wink, she does not wake. 

It must be perfectly immense 
To dream with such magnificence. 
And pass the most inclement day 
In this indeed stupendous way. 

She dreams of India's sunny clime, 
And only wakes at dinner-time, 
And even then she does not stir 
But waits till milk is brought to her. 

How nice to be the gardener's cat. 
She troubles not for mouse or rat, 
But, when it's coming down in streams, 
She sits among the flowers and dreams. 

The gardener's cat would be the thing, 
Her dreams are so encouraging; 
She dreams that she's a tiger, yet 
She's just a cat called Mignonette!

The moral's this, my little man — 
Sleep 'neath life's hailstones when you can, 
And if you're humble in estate, 
Dream splendidly, at any rate! 

The Miller’s Daughter

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It is the miller’s daughter,
  And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
  That trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
  About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
  In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
  And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
  With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

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