Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.006 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.

Lilith, Lilith

by Herbert Gorman

−0.3474 − 0.0818i

Drawing the boundary…

Land-Locked

by Celia Thaxter

−0.3412 − 0.0818i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Lilith, Lilith

by Herbert Gorman

Lilith, Lilith wept for the moon:
Its icy beauty troubled her sleep,
Stirred and thrilled her breast with a tune
Of crystal notes that fluttered the deep.
Climbing up the tower of light,
She sought the sound and followed the flame:
Cold as snow, implacably white,
The moon spun high and muttered her name.

White as Adam's body of yore
And like that flesh she never could thrill,
Far and pale as Paradise door,
The vision flooded meadow and hill...
She, the flame, the passionate flower,
Awoke and cried for waking so soon…
In a glimmering scented sleepless bower,
Lilith, Lilith wept for the moon.

Land-Locked

by Celia Thaxter

Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee;
And, catching gleams of sunset's dying smile,
Through the dusk land for many a changing mile
The river runneth softly to the sea.

O happy river, could I follow thee!
O yearning heart, that never can be still!
O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill,
Longing for level line of solemn sea!

Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds,
Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight,
All summer's glory thine from morn till night,
And life too full of joy for uttered words.

Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream
Deliciously how twilight falls to-night
Over the glimmering water, how the light
Dies blissfully away, until I seem

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low,—my name they speak!

O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.

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