Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.018 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.

Small hands, relinquish all

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.5232 − 1.0108i

Drawing the boundary…

Weather of the Soul

by Bliss Carman

−0.5414 − 1.0137i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Small hands, relinquish all

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Small hands, relinquish all
Nothing the fist can hold,—
Not power, not love, not gold—
But suffers from the cold,
And is about to fall.

The mind, at length bereft
Of thinking, and its pain,
Will soon disperse again,
And nothing will remain:
No, not a thought be left.

Exhort the closing eye,
Urge the resisting ear,
To say, “The thrush is here”
To say, “His song is clear”;
To live, before it die.

Small hands, relinquish all:
Nothing the fist can hold,
Not power, not love, not gold,
But suffers from the cold,
And is about to fall.

The mind at length bereft
Of thinking and its pain,
Will soon disperse again,
And nothing will remain:
No, not a thing be left.

Only the ardent eye,
Only the listening ear
Can say, “The thrush was here!”
Can say, “His song was clear!”
Can live, before it die.

Weather of the Soul

by Bliss Carman

There is a world of being
We range from pole to pole,
Through seasons of the spirit
And weather of the soul.

It has its new-born Aprils,
With gladness in the air,
Its golden Junes of rapture,
Its winters of despair.

And in its tranquil autumns
We halt to re-enforce
Our tattered scarlet pennons
With valor and resource.

From undiscovered regions
Only the angels know,
Great winds of aspiration
Perpetually blow,

To free the sap of impulse
From torpor of distrust,
And into flowers of joyance
Quicken the sentient dust.

From nowhere of a sudden
Loom sudden clouds of fault,
With thunders of oppression
And lightnings of revolt.

With hush of apprehension
And quaking of the heart,
There breed the storms of anger,
And floods of sorrow start.

And there shall fall,—how gently!—
To make them fertile yet,
The rain of absolution
On acres of regret.

Till snows of mercy cover
The dream that shall come true,
When time makes all things wondrous,
And life makes all things new.

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