Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.081 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.

Comrades

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.7792 + 0.1142i

Drawing the boundary…

The Wife of All Ages

by E. Nesbit

0.6992 + 0.1246i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Comrades

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Give me the reed you lean on; if a spear. 
My hand shall bleed for't as your hand has bled; 
I will not cover up my sheltered head, 
While you are houseless in the moonlight here. 
I must have half your hope and half your fear. 

I must go shares in all you drink and eat, 
Though it be bread of sorrow and cup of tears; 
Sheaves that you gather are my harvest. Dear, 
Because I glean beside you down the years. 
Your shadow's never lonely at your feet. 

And though all things turn ashes that were sweet. 
In deeps below, and in the deeps above you, 
In moods that strengthen you and moods that weaken, 
Perplexed hi shadow, led by starry beacon, 
I go with you, my lover, and I love you. 

The Wife of All Ages

by E. Nesbit

I do not catch these subtle shades of feeling,
Your fine distinctions are too fine for me;
This meeting, scheming, longing, trembling, dreaming,
To me mean love, and only love, you see;
In me at least 'tis love, you will admit,
And you the only man who wakens it.

Suppose I yearned, and longed, and dreamed, and fluttered,
What would you say or think, or further, do?
Why should one rule be fit for me to follow,
While there exists a different law for you?
If all these fires and fancies came my way,
Would you believe love was so far away?

On all these other women—never doubt it—
'Tis love you lavish, love you promised me!
What do I care to be the first, or fiftieth?
It is the only one I care to be.
Dear, I would be your sun, as mine you are,
Not the most radiant wonder of a star.

And so, good-bye! Among such sheaves of roses
You will not miss the flower I take from you;
Amid the music of so many voices
You will forget the little songs I knew—
The foolish tender words I used to say,
The little common sweets of every day.

The world, no doubt, has fairest fruits and blossoms
To give to you; but what, ah! what for me?
Nay, after all I am your slave and bondmaid,
And all my world is in my slavery.
So, as before, I welcome any part
Which you may choose to give me of your heart.

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