Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.044 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 Snow

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.3417 + 0.1215i

Drawing the boundary…

The Voice

by Matthew Arnold

−0.3831 + 0.1354i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Snow

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The snow came down, unhasting and unresting, 
Fringed every naked twig in fine array 
Of crystal and white velvet, and its spray 
Hung from the eaves where swallows will be nesting 
In airs of April three months from to-day. 

The snow came down, and made the noisy city 
A place of silence and white purity, 
Changed each gaunt post to some fantastic tree 
Full-fledged with silver flowers, and in its pity, 
Suited in the streets and highways like a sea. 

London lay white and bridal in the morning, 
Wheels went upon their way without a jar, 
And every city-sound was faint and far. 
Now trodden down for every street-boy's scorning 
Lies the white wonder, dead as some dropped star.

The Voice

by Matthew Arnold

As the kindling glances,
Queen-like and clear,
Which the bright moon lances
From her tranquil sphere
At the sleepless waters
Of a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
Shiver and die;
As the tears of sorrow
Mothers have shed—
Prayers that to-morrow
Shall in vain be sped
When the flower they flow for
Lies frozen and dead—
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
Bringing no rest;

Like bright waves that fall
With a lifelike motion
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall;
A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall;
Strains of glad music at a funeral,—
So sad, and with so wild a start
To this deep-sobered heart,
So anxiously and painfully,
So drearily and doubtfully,
And, oh! with such intolerable change
Of thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
Like wanderers from the world’s extremity,
Unto their ancient home!

In vain, all, all in vain,
They beat upon mine ear again,—
Those melancholy tones so sweet and still;
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
Did steal into mine ear;
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,
Yet could not shake it;
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.

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