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.
How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn-tree! A swarm of such, three little months ago, Had hidden in the leaves and let none know Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy. A white flake here and there — a snow-lily Of last night's frost—our naked flower-beds hold; And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee.
The current shudders to its ice-bound sedge: Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun: 'Neath winds which for this Winter's sovereign pledge Shall curb great king-masts to the ocean's edge And leave memorial forest-kings o'erthrown.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.