Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.055 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.

With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky

by William Wordsworth

−0.4367 + 0.8663i

Drawing the boundary…

Work

by D. H. Lawrence

−0.3955 + 0.8300i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky

by William Wordsworth

"With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky.
How silently, and with how wan a face!" 
Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be
And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
Should sally forth to keep thee company.
What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

Work

by D. H. Lawrence

There is no point in work
unless it absorbs you
like an absorbing game.

If it doesn't absorb you
if it's never any fun,
don't do it.

When a man goes out into his work
he is alive like a tree in spring,
he is living, not merely working.

When the Hindus weave thin wool into long, long lengths of stuff
with their thin dark hands and their wide dark eyes and their still souls absorbed
they are like slender trees putting forth leaves, a long white web of living leaf,
the tissue they weave,
and they clothe themselves in white as a tree clothes itself in its own foliage.

As with cloth, so with houses, ships, shoes, wagons or cups or loaves
men might put them forth as a snail its shell, as a bird that leans
its breast against its nest, to make it round,
as the turnip models his round root, as the bush makes flowers and gooseberries,
putting them forth, not manufacturing them,
and cities might be as once they were, bowers grown out from the busy bodies of people.

And so it will be again, men will smash the machines.

At last, for the sake of clothing himself in his own leaf-like cloth
tissued from his life,
and dwelling in his own bowery house, like a beaver's nibbled mansion
and drinking from cups that came off his fingers like flowers off their five-fold stem,
he will cancel the machines we have got.

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