Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.033 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.

Not Thou But I

by Philip Bourke Marston

−0.0821 + 0.2326i

Drawing the boundary…

The Child on the Cliffs

by Edward Thomas

−0.1142 + 0.2405i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Not Thou But I

by Philip Bourke Marston

It must have been for one of us, my own, 
To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread. 
Had not my tears upon thy face been shed, 
Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone 
Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known 
My loneliness; and did my feet not tread 
This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled 
For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan: 

And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain. 
To think of thine eternity of sleep; 
To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep: 
And when this cup's last bitterness I drain, 
One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep, — 
Thou hadst the peace and I the undying pain. 

The Child on the Cliffs

by Edward Thomas

Mother, the root of this little yellow flower
Among the stones has the taste of quinine.
Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun shines so bright,
And the grasshopper works at his sewing-machine
So hard. Here’s one on my hand, mother, look;
I lie so still. There’s one on your book.

But I have something to tell more strange. So leave
Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear,—
Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place,—
And listen now. Can you hear what I hear
Far out? Now and then the foam there curls
And stretches a white arm out like a girl’s.

Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be
A chapel or church between here and Devon,
With fishes or gulls ringing its bell,—hark!—
Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven.
“It’s the bell, my son, out in the bay
On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day.”

Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales.
I should like to be lying under that foam,
Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell,
And certain that you would often come
And rest, listening happily.
I should be happy if that could be.

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