Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.037 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.

Not, to me, less lavish

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

0.2534 + 0.5450i

Drawing the boundary…

After All the Tragedies Are Over

by D. H. Lawrence

0.2243 + 0.5221i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Not, to me, less lavish

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Not, to me, less lavish—though my dreams have been splendid—
Than dreams, have been the hours of the actual day:
Never, awaking, did I awake to say:
"Nothing could be like that," when a dream was ended.
Colours, in dream; ecstasy, in dream extended
Beyond the edge of sleep—these, in their way,
Approach, come even close, yet pause, yet stay,
In the high presence of request by its answer attended.

Music, and painting, poetry, love, and grief,
Had they been more intense, I could not have borne,—
Yet, not, I think, through stout endurance lacked;
Rather, because the budding and the falling leaf
Were one, and wonderful,—not to be torn
Apart: I ask of dream: seem like the fact.

After All the Tragedies Are Over

by D. H. Lawrence

After all the tragedies are over and worn out
and a man can no longer feel heroic about being a Hamlet—

When love is gone, and desire is dead, and tragedy has left the heart
then grief and pain go too, withdrawing
from the heart and leaving strange cold stretches of sand.

So a man no longer knows his own heart;
he might say into the twilight: What is it?
I am here, yet my heart is bare and utterly empty.
I have passed from existence, I feel nothing any more.
I am a nonentity.

Yet, when the time has come to be nothing, how good it is to be nothing!
a waste expanse of nothing, like wide foreshores where not a ripple is left
and the sea is lost
in the lapse of the lowest of tides.

Ah, when I have seen myself left by life, left nothing!

Yet even waste, grey foreshores, sand, and sorry, far-out clay
are sea-bed still, through their hour of bare denuding.
It is the moon that turns the tides.
The beaches can do nothing about it.

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content