Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.026 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.

Self-Dependence

by Matthew Arnold

−0.0781 − 0.1570i

Drawing the boundary…

Irish Ivy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.0948 − 0.1366i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Self-Dependence

by Matthew Arnold

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

Irish Ivy

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Ivy of Ireland in my garden grows 
Beside the foxglove that the wild bee knows, 
More dear to me than lavender or rose. 

Gray moths about it flit, and gold wasps hum: 
The bees salute it softly as they come: 
The east wind loiters by it, and is dumb — 

Or whispers very lightly of green rings, 
And hollow raths, and fairy-peopled springs, 
And buried days when Boholaun had wings: 

And rode amid the unforgotten Shee. 
Or the west wind comes, laughing, from the sea, 
And tells the youngest leaves of days to be, 

When Eri's grievous wound is healed, and she 
Shall lift her gracious head, and, smiling, see 
Her children coming crowned about her knee. 

Ivy of Ireland, is the promise clear? 
You climb towards the light 'twixt hope and fear. 
But would to God the day we wait were here! 

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