Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.015 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.

La Belle Dame Sans Mercy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.1210 − 0.7104i

Drawing the boundary…

The White Rooster

by George O'Neil

−0.1104 − 0.7002i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

La Belle Dame Sans Mercy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon 
They all must go who'd find her boon. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

West o' the Moon, East o' the Sun, 
Thither are many roads that run, 
But the right road is the only one. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

Her heart (woe's me!) is locked and cold- 
A secret chamber filled with gold. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

Straight as a lily-wand is she, 
Her face is pale as lilies be, 
Her brown hair floweth to her knee. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

Her hands are idle hands and white, 
They spin nor weave by day or night. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

And yet those slender hands, God wot, 
Have dug graves in her garden plot 
'Neath tangles of forget-me-not. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

There is no Saint in Paradise 
Bends brows above such holy eyes. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

And be her eyes or blue or grey, 
There lives no man on earth to say, 
Yet her eyes draw men's souls away 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

And who dare kiss her on the mouth 
Knows no more hunger, no more drouth. 
(La Belle Dame Sans Mercy!) 

And whoso she hath kissed again 
Is blest among all other men: 
But Heaven's gate shuts him agen 
And La Belle Dame Sans Mercy. 

The White Rooster

by George O'Neil

Ah, God! to have a breast like that
To throw at day,
Thrust for the hands of dawn
To quiver and flare upon.

With a bloody flag sewn in your head
And a hook of gold to end you,
And all yourself an arch
And your soul a white cascade.

On yellow spirals step, step, stalk,
And clutch reluctant loam,
Hard kernels and brown hens
In the brazen blue of noon.

Ah, God! Stab upward with your noise!
Tear at the sky!
With his spine a tilted flame
And the day gone molten down his throat,
What singer could not make one song
As fine as fire?

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