Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.058 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 Faun to his Shadow

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.3890 + 1.0064i

Drawing the boundary…

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

−0.4428 + 1.0285i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Faun to his Shadow

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The Faun said to his shadow, "How can I dance or play 
When never an Oread beckons me at dawning of the day? 
When never an Oread, rosy-limbed, laughs through the living grass 
Or leans adown the river-bank to make the stream her glass?" 

The Faun said to his shadow, "The days are over-long, 
The very ousel-cock begins to pipe a sadder song—
Oh, short sweet days of summer, would that I slept with you 
In your nest lined warm with faded flowers, old kisses and lost dew! 

Oh, faded flowers of fennel, that will not bloom again 
For any south wind's calling, for any magic rain — 
What gold is left in all the world, what gold for me to win? 
What shadows worth the hiding in, what sorrow worth the sin? 

And you, O dear dead Oreads, I would not have you back, 
For the world's old, and the world's cold, and love is turned to lack. 
Better for me to leave these fields forlorn, these meadows gray, 
And follow your fading footsteps upon the sunless way — 
And find — who knows what a Faun may find beyond the night and day?"

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agéd boughs o’er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant’s breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveler
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy’s Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may’st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

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