Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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 Hill-Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.4122 + 0.0268i

Drawing the boundary…

Peer Gynt

by Charles Sorley

−0.3981 + 0.0155i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Hill-Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The hill-winds coming, the hill-winds going, 
They have no care for my heavy fret; 
I lay my face in the long grass growing, 
And dream of Moirin, and half forget 
That never a wind in the world is blowing 
Her thoughts to my heart that loves her yet. 

The hill-winds going, the hill-winds coming, 
I take no heed of them all day long — 
Though I lie in their heart from dawn to gloaming, 
And hark the bees where the clovers throng: 
And, O wild bees, that you'd hush your humming: 
What comfort is there in comb or song? 

The hill-winds fly without care or cumber, 
And scent of bean-fields they bring to me, 
Where magic flowers without name or number 
Are sending dreams where sad sleepers be: 
But none so deep as the honeyed slumber 
Of Moirin drowned in the Ictian Sea. 

Peer Gynt

by Charles Sorley

When he was young and beautiful and bold
We hated him, for he was very strong.
But when he came back home again, quite old,
And wounded too, we could not hate him long.

For kingliness and conquest pranced he forth
Like some high-stepping charger bright with foam.
And south he strode and east and west and north
With need of crowns and never need of home.

Enraged we heard high tidings of his strength
And cursed his long forgetfulness. We swore
That should he come back home some eve at length.
We would deny him, we would bar the door!

And then he came. The sound of those tired feet!
And all our home and all our hearts are his,
Where bitterness, grown weary, turns to sweet,
And envy, purged by longing, pity is.

And pillows rest beneath the withering cheek,
And hands are laid the battered brows above,
And he whom we had hated, waxen weak,
First in his weakness learns a little love.

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