Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.013 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.

A Song of Four Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.4767 − 0.5136i

Drawing the boundary…

A Dirge

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

−0.4804 − 0.5260i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

A Song of Four Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The gray wind out of the West 
Is sighing and making moan, 
For a noinin's silver crest 
In the hay-swathes overthrown. 
Like the heart in a dying breast, 
It flutters, making its moan, 
The gray wind out of the West. 

The black wind out of the North 
Blows loud, like a cry of war: 
Its voice goes gallantly forth 
In fields where the spearsmen are: 
To them is its voice not worth 
Wild music of any star? 
The black wind out of the North. 

The white wind out of the South, 
It makes not for war nor peace: 
'Tis the breath of a colleen's mouth, 
Yet it flutters the willow-trees: 
It burns men's souls with drouth, 
Then fills their souls with ease: 
The white wind out of the South. 

The red wind out of the East — 
What word can a harper say 
Of the wind that blows from the feast, 
And blows men into the fray: 
It will not stay for the priest, 
For the Host it will not stay — 
The red wind blowing out of the East, 
The wind of the Judgment Day. 

A Dirge

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

A bell tolls on in my heart
As though in my ears a knell
Had ceased for awhile to swell,
But the sense of it would not part
From the spirit that bears its part
In the chime of the soundless bell.

Ah dear dead singer of sorrow,
The burden is now not thine
That grief bade sound for a sign
Through the songs of the night whose morrow
Has risen, and I may not borrow
A beam from its radiant shrine.

The burden has dropped from thee
That grief on thy life bound fast;
The winter is over and past
Whose end thou wast fain to see.
Shall sorrow not comfort me
That is thine no longer—at last?

Good day, good night, and good morrow,
Men living and mourning say.
For thee we could only pray
That night of the day might borrow
Such comfort as dreams lend sorrow:
Death gives thee at last good day.

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