Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.049 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.

Sunrise on the Coast

by Banjo Paterson

−0.6078 + 0.2908i

Drawing the boundary…

The Little Ghost

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.6503 + 0.2660i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Sunrise on the Coast

by Banjo Paterson

Grey dawn on the sandhills — the night wind has drifted
All night from the rollers a scent of the sea;
With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted,
At the scent of the morning they scatter and flee.

Like mariners calling the roll of their number
The sea fowl put out to the infinite deep.
And far overhead — sinking softly to slumber —
Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep.

To eastward where resteth the dome of the skies on
The sea line stirs softly the curtain of night;
And far from behind the enshrouded horizon
Comes the voice of a God saying, 'Let there be light.'

And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender,
It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen grey;
And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour —
Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day!

The Little Ghost

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

Broad, high yew hedges flank the flowers, and border 
An old, smooth lawn where, fashioned grimly stiff. 
Two knights — in close-clipped box — keep ancient order, 
O'er shaven dragon, hound and hippogriff; 
And there,
When the June air 
At dusk is cool and fair. 
And the great roses strengthen on their stalks, 
Down the long path, beset 
With heaven-scented, haunting mignonette. 
The gardeners say, 
A little grey 
Ghost-lady walks! 

I haven't seen her, haven't heard her legend. 
Pale little shade, only the rumour tells 
That 'tis her wont to wander to the hedge-end, 
And vanish near the Canterbury Bells; 
And so 
I do not know 
What sends her to and fro — 
Murder, may be, or broken heart, or gold. 
I like to fancy most 
That she is just some little lady's ghost 
Who loved her flowers
And quiet hours 
In Junes of old! 

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