Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.103 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.

The First Birth Day

by Hartley Coleridge

−0.7351 + 0.6324i

Drawing the boundary…

Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo’s month

by Dylan Thomas

−0.6322 + 0.6286i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The First Birth Day

by Hartley Coleridge

The Sun, sweet girl, hath run his year-long race
Through the vast nothing of the eternal sky—
Since the glad hearing of the first faint cry
Announc’d a stranger from the unknown place
Of unborn souls. How blank was then the face,
How uninform’d the weak light-shunning eye,
That wept and saw not. Poor mortality
Begins to mourn before it knows its case,
Prophetic in its ignorance. But soon
The hospitalities of earth engage
The banish’d spirit in its new exile —
Pass some few changes of the fickle Moon,
The merry babe has learn’d its Mother’s smile,
Its father’s frown, its nurse’s mimic rage.

Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo’s month

by Dylan Thomas

Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo’s month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan’s hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly’s rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.

Country, your sport is summer, and December’s pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown;
Hold hard, my country children in the world of tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
This first and steepled season, to the summer’s game.

And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in a vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly’s hunter and the hard-held hope.

Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children’s faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my county darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.

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