Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.043 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.

Existence

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

0.5327 − 0.3217i

Drawing the boundary…

Spring Morning

by A. A. Milne

0.4945 − 0.3015i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Existence

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You are here, and you are wanted,
Though a waif upon life's stair;
Though the sunlit hours are haunted
With the shadowy shapes of care.
Still the Great One, the All-Seeing
Called your spirit into being —
Gave you strength for any fate.
Since your life by Him was needed,
All your ways by Him are heeded —
You can trust and you can wait.

You can wait to know the meaning
Of the troubles sent your soul;
Of the chasms intervening
'Twixt your purpose and your goal;
Of the sorrows and the trials,
Of the silence and denials,
Ofttimes answering to your pleas;
Of the stinted sweets of pleasure,
And of pain's too generous measure
You can wait the WHY of these.

Forth from planet unto planet,
You have gone, and you will go.
Space is vast, but we must span it;
For life's purpose is TO KNOW.
Earth retains you but a minute,
Make the best of what lies in it;
Light the pathway where you are.
There is nothing worth the doing
That will leave regret or rueing,
As you speed from star to star.

You are part of the Beginning,
You are parcel of To-day.
When He set His world to spinning
You were flung upon your way.
When the system falls to pieces,
When this pulsing epoch ceases,
When the IS becomes the WAS,
You will live, for you will enter
In the great Creative Centre,
In the All-Enduring Cause.

Spring Morning

by A. A. Milne

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow—
Up on the hill where the pine trees blow—
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.

If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
"Doesn't the sky look green to-day?"

Where am I going? The high rooks call:
"It's awful fun to be born at all."
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
"We do have beautiful things to do."

If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
"That's where I wanted to go to-day!"

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow—
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

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