Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.011 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.

To the River Charles

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

−0.1106 − 0.6889i

Drawing the boundary…

The White Rooster

by George O'Neil

−0.1104 − 0.7002i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To the River Charles

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;—thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.

The White Rooster

by George O'Neil

Ah, God! to have a breast like that
To throw at day,
Thrust for the hands of dawn
To quiver and flare upon.

With a bloody flag sewn in your head
And a hook of gold to end you,
And all yourself an arch
And your soul a white cascade.

On yellow spirals step, step, stalk,
And clutch reluctant loam,
Hard kernels and brown hens
In the brazen blue of noon.

Ah, God! Stab upward with your noise!
Tear at the sky!
With his spine a tilted flame
And the day gone molten down his throat,
What singer could not make one song
As fine as fire?

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