Poem fractal

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0.030 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 Hunting

by Lewis Carroll

0.0152 − 0.0262i

Drawing the boundary…

Guinevere

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.0127 − 0.0371i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Hunting

by Lewis Carroll

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
"If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
If you never were met with again—
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
You might have suggested it then?

"It's excessively awkward to mention it now—
As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
"I informed you the day we embarked.

"You may charge me with murder—or want of sense—
(We are all of us weak at times):
But the slightest approach to a false pretence
Was never among my crimes!

"I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch—
I said it in German and Greek:
But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
That English is what you speak!"

"'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face
Had grown longer at every word:
"But, now that you've stated the whole of your case,
More debate would be simply absurd.

"The rest of my speech" (he exclaimed to his men)
"You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it.
But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
'Tis your glorious duty to seek it!

"To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
To pursue it with forks and hope;
To threaten its life with a railway-share;
To charm it with smiles and soap!

"For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that wo'n't
Be caught in a commonplace way.
Do all that you know, and try all that you don't:
Not a chance must be wasted to-day!

"For England expects—I forbear to proceed:
'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need
To rig yourselves out for the fight."

Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
And changed his loose silver for notes:
The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair.
And shook the dust out of his coats:

The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade—
Each working the grindstone in turn:
But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed
No interest in the concern:

Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride,
And vainly proceeded to cite
A number of cases, in which making laces
Had been proved an infringement of right.

The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned
A novel arrangement of bows:
While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand
Was chalking the tip of his nose.

But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine,
With yellow kid gloves and a ruff—
Said he felt it exactly like going to dine,
Which the Bellman declared was all "stuff".

"Introduce me, now there's a good fellow," he said,
"If we happen to meet it together!"
And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head,
Said "That must depend on the weather."

The Beaver went simply galumphing about,
At seeing the Butcher so shy:
And even the Baker, though stupid and stout,
Made an effort to wink with one eye.

"Be a man!" said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard
The Butcher beginning to sob.
"Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
We shall need all our strength for the job!"

Guinevere

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Amid the blossoms of the whitethorn wood, 
Flower of all flowers, in Arthur's dream she stood, 
No lily, but a rose of womanhood. 

Gold veil blown backward from her golden hair, 
Green-clad like young leaves in the April air: 
Too fair the dream is, Arthur: deadly fair! 

Yet thou shalt have the rose awhile to hold, 
But for its sweetness' sake thy hearth grows cold — 
Thy sword is rusted all for hair of gold! 

How should he dream of sorrow, shame, or fear, 
So loud the birds sang round the magic mere 
Whose lightest ripple whispered "Guinevere!" 

How should he dream of grief who dreams of love? 
Or guess how sore the cage shall fret his dove 
When she grows weary of the gold thereof? 

Dream: it is good to dream when day is young — 
Thy Queen shall dream another wood among 
When love has loosed the bonds on Lancelot's tongue. 

Dream: as in Avalon (if oaths hold good) 
To-day thou dreamest of her as she stood 
Among the blossoms of the whitethorn wood. 

Dream: I, too, dream who saw but yesterday 
Queen Guinevere among the blossomed may, 
A rose, a rose that shall not fade away. 

Not fade, nor fail, but quicken still men's blood 
In an uncourtly age, a lighter mood — 
A rose that blossoms in a whitethorn wood. 

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