Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.027 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.

Possessions

by Hart Crane

−0.4591 − 0.0262i

Drawing the boundary…

Frost To-Night

by Edith M. Thomas

−0.4803 − 0.0436i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Possessions

by Hart Crane

Witness now this trust! the rain
That steals softly direction
And the key, ready to hand-sifting
One moment in sacrifice (the direst)
Through a thousand nights the flesh
Assaults outright for bolts that linger
Hidden,—O undirected as the sky
That through its black foam has no eyes
For this fixed stone of lust…

Accumulate such moments to an hour:
Account the total of this trembling tabulation.
I know the screen, the distant flying taps
And stabbing medley that sways—
And the mercy, feminine, that stays
As though prepared.

And I, entering, take up the stone
As quiet as you can make a man.
In Bleecker Street, still trenchant in a void,
Wounded by apprehensions out of speech,
I hold it up against a disk of light—
I, turning, turning on smoked forking spires,
The city's stubborn lives, desires.

Tossed on these horns, who bleeding dies,
Lacks all but piteous admissions to be spilt
Upon the page whose blind sum finally burns
Record of rage and partial appetites.
The pure possession, the inclusive cloud
Whose heart is fire shall come,—the white wind rase
All but bright stones wherein our smiling plays.

Frost To-Night

by Edith M. Thomas

Apple-green west and an orange bar,
And the crystal eye of a lone, one star…
And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will.
Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,—
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!
A gleam of the shears in the fading light,
And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng,
And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers,
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:
"Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still…"
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content