Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.013 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.

Love in September

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.0985 − 0.2284i

Drawing the boundary…

I Have Wandered to a Spring

by Edna Wahlert McCourt

0.0861 − 0.2328i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Love in September

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The garden lay about us twain 
Hoarding its sweets up for the rain; 
We clung together, you and I, 
And heard the minutes hurrying by. 
Heart against heart beat heavily, 
Your eyes through twilight sought for mine, 
My lips drank love from yours like wine. 

Our lips together met and clung — 
Our love stood beautiful and young 
And watched us while the minutes spun 
Webs of delight not yet undone, 
While our lips, kissing, would not part; 
While all the night beat like a heart 
Fuller of fire than any sun; 
And one great star and only one 
Above us for a lantern hung. 

My hand in yours so closely lay, 
I felt your pulse beat like my own; 
I breathed your breath, and in my brain 
The seed of your own thought was sown. 
The garden walls seemed far away,
The scent of flowering mint was blown 
About us in the gloaming gray, 
About us as our lips clung close 
As flash and peal, as bee and rose. 

But flash and peal and cloud were not. 
Twilight and scent for us begot 
Delicate dreams, and for our sake 
No bat, or buzzing chafer came 
The happy silences to break.
We kissed, and to the lighted room 
Came, carrying with us like perfume 
As lovely as the rose's name, 
The memory of the twilight sweet 
In shining eyes and laggard feet.

I Have Wandered to a Spring

by Edna Wahlert McCourt

I have wandered to a spring in the forest green and dim,
The sweet quiet stirs about me—
The water twinkles at me,
As I stoop to dip my cup,
As I stoop to drink—to him.

True, I’m only half in earnest—I touch the cool, wet brim—
He’d laugh if he could see me—
I’m glad he doesn’t see me,
As alone with my queer gladness,
I stoop to drink—to him.

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