Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.007 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 Shepherd of the Sea

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.2308 + 0.6979i

Drawing the boundary…

When we that wore the myrtle wear the dust

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.2261 + 0.7035i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Shepherd of the Sea

by Nora Hopper Chesson

I am a mighty shepherd, and many are my flocks; 
I lead them, I feed them among the weedy rocks. 
My shepherd's crook is fashioned out of a Norway pine. 
And there's no sheep-dog in the world will herd these flocks of mine. 

My fold is wide, and day and night the walls shift of my fold,
No upland, no lowland my lambing ewes withhold
From the cry of their shepherd, the beckoning of his hand;
For my own desert places they leave the pastureland. 

With wild white fleeces surging about me to my knee, 
I go about my herding, the Shepherd of the Sea; 
I call to the rock-pastures the white sheep of the waves,
For they but find their grazing where sailors find their graves. 

I am a mighty shepherd, and mighty flocks have I; 
I lead them, I feed them while stars are in the sky; 
And when the moon is waning on sheltered shore and lee, 
I rest not nor slumber, the Shepherd of the Sea.

When we that wore the myrtle wear the dust

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When we that wore the myrtle wear the dust,
And years of darkness cover up our eyes,
And all our arrogant laughter and sweet lust
Keep counsel with the scruples of the wise;
When boys and girls that now are in the loins
Of croaking lads, dip oar into the sea,—
And who are these that dive for copper coins?
No longer we, my love, no longer we—
Then let the fortunate breathers of the air,
When we lie speechless in the muffling mould,
Tease not our ghosts with slander, pause not there
To say that love is false and soon grows cold,
But pass in silence the mute grave of two
Who lived and died believing love was true.

 

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