Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.022 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.

My heart shall be thy garden

by Alice Meynell

−0.5505 + 0.3725i

Drawing the boundary…

Mrs. Willow

by John Drinkwater

−0.5665 + 0.3878i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

My heart shall be thy garden

by Alice Meynell

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,
Into thy garden. Thine be happy hours
Among my fairest fruits, my tallest flowers,
From root to crowning petal thine alone.
Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown,
Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.
But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine
To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,
Sing one song only from our alder trees,
My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,
Flit to the silent world and other summers
With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.

Mrs. Willow

by John Drinkwater

Mrs. Thomas Willow seems very glum.
Her life, perhaps, is very lonely and hum-drum,
Digging up potatoes, cleaning out the weeds,
Doing the little for a lone woman's needs.
Who was her husband? How long ago?
What does she wonder? What does she know?
Why does she listen over the wall,
Morning and noon-time and twilight and all,
As though unforgotten were some footfall?

"Good morning, Mrs. Willow." "Good morning, sir,"
Is all the conversation I can get from her.
And her path-stones are white as lilies of the wood,
And she washes this and that till she must be very good.
She sends no letters, and no one calls,
And she doesn't go whispering beyond her walls;
Nothing in her garden is secret, I think—
That's all sun-bright with foxglove and pink,
And she doesn't hover round old cupboards and shelves

As old people do who have buried themselves;
She has no late lamps, and she digs all day
And polishes and plants in a common way,
But glum she is, and she listens now and then
For a footfall, a footfall, a footfall again,
And whether it's hope, or whether it's dread,
Or a poor old fancy in her head,
I shall never be told; it will never be said.

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