Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.069 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.

Telling the Bees

by Frederic William Moorman

0.5456 − 0.0004i

Drawing the boundary…

Gypsy Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.4775 + 0.0072i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Telling the Bees

by Frederic William Moorman

Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon, an' fine havver-bread.
But toom' is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Look, conny bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay;
Or, mebbe, you'll leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Sitha! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone;
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Gypsy Song

by Nora Hopper Chesson

You are the safe and firelit room, 
I am the open wold; 
You are the city, and this your doom- 
Never to feel the outer cold, 
Never to fear the inner dark: 
Never to strain the ears, and hark 
For any foot but the foot of Time; 
Never to know a loss worth gain 
Or soul that's worth the birthing-pain; 
Never to find hill worth the climb 
Or joy that may be worth the tear — 
My Dear! 

You are shut in from snow and sleet, 
I am out in the wind; 
My feet are strange to the trodden street 
As you are strange to the winds that beat. 
The mists that hover and blind. 
I cannot stay, you cannot bind — 
My hands unclasp and let you go, 
As if you were no more than snow 
That slips away from me in rain. 
I love you, yet our souls are twain. 
For I am knowledge, you are fear. 
My Dear. 

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