Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.035 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.

Twice Times

by A. A. Milne

−0.0370 + 0.0730i

Drawing the boundary…

Faith

by Ada Cambridge

−0.0388 + 0.1081i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Twice Times

by A. A. Milne

There were Two little Bears who lived in a Wood,
And one of them was Bad and the other was Good.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times One — 
But Bad Bear left all his buttons undone.

They lived in a Tree when the weather was hot,
And one of them was Good, and the other was Not.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Two — 
But Bad Bear's thingummies were worn right through.

They lived in a Cave when the weather was cold,
And they Did, and they Didn't Do, what they were told.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Three — 
But Bad Bear never had his hand-ker-chee.

They lived in the Wood with a Kind Old Aunt,
And one said "Yes'm," and the other said "Shan't!"
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Four — 
But Bad Bear's knicketies were terrible tore.

And then quite suddenly (just like Us)
One got Better and the other got Wuss.
Good Bear muddled his Twice Times Three — 
But Bad Bear coughed in his hand-ker-chee!

Good Bear muddled his Twice Times Two — 
But Bad Bear's thingummies looked like new.
Good Bear muddled his Twice Times One — 
But Bad Bear never left his buttons undone.

There may be a Moral, though some say not;
I think there's a moral, though I don't know what.
But if one gets better, as the other gets wuss,
These Two Little Bears are just like Us.
For Christopher remembers up to Twice Times Ten….
But I keep forgetting where I've put my pen.

Faith

by Ada Cambridge

And is the Great Cause lost beyond recall?
Have all the hopes of ages come to nought?
Is Life no more with noble meaning fraught?
Is Life but Death, and Love its funeral pall?
Maybe. But still on bended knees I fall,
Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught.
Oh God my God, by no false prophet wrought,
I believe still, in despite of it all!

Let go the myths and creeds of groping men.
This clay knows nought the Potter understands.
I own that Power divine beyond my ken,
And still can leave me in His shaping hands.
But, O my God, that madest me to feel!
Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel.

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