So long a winter such an arctic night! I had forgot that ever spring was bright: But hark! The blackbird's voice like a clear flame!
So long a winter, such an age of chill, Made me forget this silver birch clad hill. But see, the newborn sunbeams put to shame Our long dead winter: bracken fronds like flame, Pierce the new morning's saffron-watered light.
So long, so long the winter in our hearts, We had forgotten that old grief departs And had forgotten that our hands could meet.
So long, so long: Remember our last May When there was sunshine still and every day New swallows skimmed low down along the street. Ay, spring shall come, but shall we ever meet With the old hearts in this forgotten way?
My soul has many an old decaying room Hung with the ragged arras of the past, Where startled faces flicker in the gloom, And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death, A something like a worm gnawing a brain, That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith The blind wind beating on the window-pane.
None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can: I pass them through at night with hidden head; Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan, Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know, Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.