Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

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.

The Ponies

by William Rose Benét

−0.3273 − 0.1524i

Drawing the boundary…

Versailles

by A. Mary F. Robinson

−0.3209 − 0.1588i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Ponies

by William Rose Benét

Turning down the lane, we heard a scuffle,
A trample, jostle, and snort.
They were crowded in the dusk before our cottage
To see were we their sort;

But they scared before our footsteps coming slowly,
Scattering past us up the lane,
The ragamuffin vagabonds of ponies,
Trotting hoof and flopping mane.

And by night, coming home across the common,
With the moon behind a cloud,
You would very nearly stumble on them grazing
Till they loomed and snorted loud,

Pretending they were gobbiluns or ghaisties,
Whereas, do you suppose
The apocalyptic horse in Revelations
Had a pushing velvet nose?

There were pigs that routed mast beneath the oak-trees,
There were birds to trill and call,
There were pleasant dogs, but still I think the ponies
Were the best beasts of all;

And I wish that I were strolling with my ashplant
To our cottage down the lane,
And I wish that you were there to cast your glamour
Over books and tea again;

And I wish that it was dusk and we were homing,
Turning off beside the pond,
Almost laughing once again to hear them snorting
In the dusk down beyond

Where they huddled thrusting heads across the wicket
Of our cottage, to report
To the rabbits and the badgers in the Forest
Whether we were of their sort.

Versailles

by A. Mary F. Robinson

The king is dead who planned these terraces;
The turf has grown to meadow-grass again;
The lake is rank beneath the untended trees,
And down the mouldering statues drips the rain.

The king is dead. Ay, he, with all his kind,
Is absolutely vanished, lost, and gone,
And not a trace of him remains behind;
But the forsaken palace lingers on.

How desolate! The weary waters drowned
In mist, the empty alleys chill and frore,
The vast and melancholy pleasure-ground
Where the forgotten monarch comes no more.

How like an older Folly, planned no less
For beauty, where a greater monarch trod,
And now, grown old, in its extreme distress
Abandoned by the long-departed God!

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