Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.061 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.

The Quitter

by Robert W. Service

0.4469 + 0.4085i

Drawing the boundary…

One Way of Love

by Nora Hopper Chesson

0.4878 + 0.3636i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Quitter

by Robert W. Service

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

“You're sick of the game!” Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
“You've had a raw deal!” I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit —
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

One Way of Love

by Nora Hopper Chesson

How do I love you, Dear? 
I love you as the moonlight loves the mere 
That all the day waits for it, and keeps close 
Its beauty from the bold eyes of the sun.
But when the day-flower shuts and night's begun 
Under the moonlight wakes the dreaming mere. 
Drinks the soft light, and draws its beauty in; 
Opens and beats and glows — 
A white rose made of water, yea, a rose. 

Yours is a subtler music than my ear 
Can follow into silence when I hear. 
Yours is a rarer colour than one traces 
On a dove's breast, or in the windflowers' faces. 
More strange of scent is this your water-rose 
And deeper-hearted than the moonlight knows 
Perhaps. But in your dark moods and your clear,
Your sweetness and your sorrow and your sin, 
Your doubt, your toil, your idleness, your fear, 
I see them all; and love you always, Dear. 

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