Poem fractal

Side by side

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0.009 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.

Dirge to a Dead Owl

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.0914 + 0.2932i

Drawing the boundary…

Manners

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

−0.0954 + 0.3016i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Dirge to a Dead Owl

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

Silent, mysterious, on wings of down, 
A swift, deceptive presence in the cover, 
Vaguely irresolute, soft-breasted, brown. 
Bird of Minerva, tawny-eyed moon-lover. 
You faced the sunshine mid the fir-trees gaunt, 
Roused by the beaters' distant sticks a-tapping. 
From some sequestered, hidden, noontide haunt. 
Where doubtless you'd been napping. 

Now all that's mortal of you, limp and dead. 
Lies where a few pale, floating plumes still fly light; 
Your little ghost, I like to think, has sped 
To the dim nether world of endless twilight, 
(Fit paradise for one who loved full well 
The empty dark, those shores forlorn, abhorrent,) 
To sail for ever o'er the asphodel. 
By Styx's gloomy torrent! 

Meanwhile with hasty hands the mould I'll heap 
Over your warm, uncaring, earthly habit, 
Over the pinions that no more may sweep 
Upon the unsophisticated rabbit; 
Lost to the daylight (which you couldn't brook, 
You loathed that sunrise bore, the dull but good cock), 
None of the guns shall guess that I mistook 
You for the sweepstakes woodcock.

Manners

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Grace, Beauty and Caprice
Build this golden portal;
Graceful women, chosen men,
Dazzle every mortal.
Their sweet and lofty countenance
His enchanted food;
He need not go to them, their forms
Beset his solitude.
He looketh seldom in their face,
His eyes explore the ground,—
The green grass is a looking-glass
Whereon their traits are found.
Little and less he says to them,
So dances his heart in his breast;
Their tranquil mien bereaveth him
Of wit, of words, of rest.
Too weak to win, too fond to shun
The tyrants of his doom,
The much deceived Endymion
Slips behind a tomb.

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