Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.067 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.

Easter Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.1821 + 0.8724i

Drawing the boundary…

The Grief of Love

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

0.1861 + 0.8060i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Easter Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

I am the dream of April, I am the soul of May, 
The sallows scatter, the sallows splatter their gold upon my way: 
The gorses swing censers of spring to honour Easter Day. 

I am the baby April, the woman May will be:
I set the berry and hang the cherry on briar and cornel-tree; 
Mine's the shut rose, the apple-blows, the rainbow on the sea. 

My tears are all of April, my laughter is of May, 
My sorrow's all a cowslip-ball, so light to toss away: 
My heart is bright with Easter light, my face is fair to see. 
Because God's risen, and out of prison the whole round world goes free. 

The Grief of Love

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Love, I am sick for thee, sick with an absolute grief,
Sick with the thought of thy eyes and lips and bosom.
All the beauty I saw, I see to my hurt revealed.
All that I felt I feel to-day for my pain and sorrow.

Love, I would fain forget thee, hide thee in deeper night,
Shut thee where no thought is, in the grave with tears.
Love, I would turn my face to the wall and, if needs be, die;
Death less cruel were than thy eyes which have blinded me.

Since thou art gone from me, glory is gone from my life;
Dumb are the woods and streams, and dumb the voice of my soul;
Dead are the flowers we loved, blackened and sere with blight;
Earth is frost-bound under my foot where our foot-steps trod.

Give me back for my sorrow the days of senseless peace,
Days when I thought not of thee, or thought in wisdom;
Let me see thee once more as thou to my folly wert,
A woman senseless as sounding brass or as tinkling cymbal.

Why didst thou show me thy heart, which I thought not of?
Why didst thou bare me thy soul, who to me were soulless?
Why didst thou kiss my mouth, when my mouth did mock?
Why didst thou speak to my lips of love, ere my lips had spoken?

Love, thou hast made me thine, thine, and in my despite,
Laying thy hand on my heart in the soft Spring weather;
Love, thou hast bought my soul at a price, the price of thine,
Never again to mock at love, ah, never, never!

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