Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.043 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.

The Strawberry Shrub

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

0.1785 + 0.6523i

Drawing the boundary…

Long time a child, and still a child

by Hartley Coleridge

0.1570 + 0.6149i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Strawberry Shrub

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Strawberry shrub, old-fashioned, quaint as quinces,
Hard to find in a world where neon and noise
Have flattened the ends of the three more subtle senses
And blare and magenta are all that a child enjoys.

More brown than red the bloom—it is a dense color,
Color of dried blood; color of the key of F.
Tie it in your handkerchief, Dorcas, take it to school
To smell. But no, as I said, it is browner than red; it is duller
Than history, tinnier than algebra; and you are color-deaf.

Purple, a little, the bloom; like musty chocolate;
Purpler than the purple avens of the wet fields;
But brown and red and hard and hiding its fragrance;
More like an herb it is: it is not exuberant.
You must bruise it a bit; it does not exude; it yields.

Clinker-built, the bloom, overlapped, its petals
Like clapboards; like a boat I had; like the feathers of a wing;
Not graceful, not at all Grecian, something from the provinces:
A chunky, ruddy, beautiful Boeotian thing.

Take it to school, knotted in your handkerchief, Dorcas,
Corner of your handkerchief, take it to school, and see
What your teacher says; show your pretty teacher the curious
Strawberry shrub you took to school for me.

Long time a child, and still a child

by Hartley Coleridge

Long time a child, and still a child, when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I,—
For yet I lived like one not born to die;
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,
I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey,
For I have lost the race I never ran:
A rathe December blights my lagging May;
And still I am a child, tho’ I be old,
Time is my debtor for my years untold.

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