Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.022 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.

Lines and Squares

by A. A. Milne

−0.0695 + 0.2930i

Drawing the boundary…

Dirge to a Dead Owl

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.0914 + 0.2932i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Lines and Squares

by A. A. Milne

Whenever I walk in a London street,
I'm ever so careful to watch my feet;
And I keep in the squares,
And the masses of bears,
Who wait at the corners all ready to eat
The sillies who tread on the lines of the street,
Go back to their lairs,
And I say to them, "Bears,
Just look how I'm walking in all of the squares!"

And the little bears growl to each other, "He's mine,
As soon as he's silly and steps on a line."
And some of the bigger bears try to pretend
That they came round the corner to look for a friend;
And they try to pretend that nobody cares
Whether you walk on the lines or squares.
But only the sillies believe their talk;
It's ever so portant how you walk.
And it's ever so jolly to call out, "Bears,
Just watch me walking in all the squares!"

Dirge to a Dead Owl

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

Silent, mysterious, on wings of down, 
A swift, deceptive presence in the cover, 
Vaguely irresolute, soft-breasted, brown. 
Bird of Minerva, tawny-eyed moon-lover. 
You faced the sunshine mid the fir-trees gaunt, 
Roused by the beaters' distant sticks a-tapping. 
From some sequestered, hidden, noontide haunt. 
Where doubtless you'd been napping. 

Now all that's mortal of you, limp and dead. 
Lies where a few pale, floating plumes still fly light; 
Your little ghost, I like to think, has sped 
To the dim nether world of endless twilight, 
(Fit paradise for one who loved full well 
The empty dark, those shores forlorn, abhorrent,) 
To sail for ever o'er the asphodel. 
By Styx's gloomy torrent! 

Meanwhile with hasty hands the mould I'll heap 
Over your warm, uncaring, earthly habit, 
Over the pinions that no more may sweep 
Upon the unsophisticated rabbit; 
Lost to the daylight (which you couldn't brook, 
You loathed that sunrise bore, the dull but good cock), 
None of the guns shall guess that I mistook 
You for the sweepstakes woodcock.

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