Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.031 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.

Myself

by Edgar A. Guest

−0.1879 − 0.2808i

Drawing the boundary…

Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.2176 − 0.2903i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Myself

by Edgar A. Guest

I have to live with myself, and so
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I've done.

I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of a man I really am;
I don't want to dress myself up in sham.

I want to go out with my head erect,
I want to deserve all men's respect;
But here in the struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to think as I come and go
That I'm bluster and bluff and empty show.

I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself—and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.

Winds

by Nora Hopper Chesson

The wind came crying from the East; 
And blew the churchyard-grass aside 
As if to read forgotten names, 
It tossed the very altar-flames, 
And like a mourning woman cried, 
Whose sorrow will not be denied: 
Then in the sea-caves sank and ceased. 

The wind came singing from the West; 
And through the formal gardens ranged, 
And suddenly they all were changed. 
He entered in the rose's breast,
Like any bee, and, murmuring there, 
Sent a new music through the air: 
Then, in mid-sweetness, fell to rest. 

The wind came shouting from the North; 
As some armed warrior might come forth 
Eager to slay, or to be slain. 
He tore the last leaves from the tree 
And sped them shuddering o'er the plain; 
He called to heel the angry sea, 
And lashed it with his scourge of rain. 

The wind came sighing from the South, 
His hair a cloud, a rose his mouth; 
His eyes beneath the level brows 
Were shadowy as forest boughs; 
His voice was like a song one hears 
In childhood, lost for many years. 
Heard first with laughter, last with tears. 

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