Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.070 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.

If I Had Been a Rose

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.5168 + 0.4013i

Drawing the boundary…

The Quitter

by Robert W. Service

0.4469 + 0.4085i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

If I Had Been a Rose

by Nora Hopper Chesson

If I had been a rose 
And not a woman, would your feet have stayed 
A moment in their passing, and in shade 
That meeting boughs of lime and lilac made 
Would you have stood, and softly touched my flower, 
Making me redder, and breathed in my dower 
Of sweetness? Would you gather me, I wonder. 
Or pass without a word, and leave me under 
My shading leaves to watch my bloom grow dry? 
Ah, would you be unkind, and pass me by 
If I had been a rose? 

If I had been a rose, 
You had been kinder than to leave me there. 
Spilling my sweetness out, half in despair, 
And half because remembering is so rare. 
'Tis easy withering roses, even in June! 
Too rough a wind-touch, or too bright a noon. 
The red leaves drop and show the gold heart under 
Past dream or daring, past desire or wonder. 
Ah, yet be gentle though no rose am I! 
My tears are in my heart — my heart were dry, 
If I had been a rose. 

The Quitter

by Robert W. Service

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

“You're sick of the game!” Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
“You've had a raw deal!” I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit —
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

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