Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.038 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.

Paris in Spring

by Sara Teasdale

−0.5561 − 0.5126i

Drawing the boundary…

Sweet Power of Song

by Joanna Baillie

−0.5224 − 0.4946i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Paris in Spring

by Sara Teasdale

The city's all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind's a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one—
Oh, it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh, it's Paris, it's Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.

The sun 's gone in, the sparkle's dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time's come again.

Sweet Power of Song

by Joanna Baillie

Sweet power of song! that canst impart
To lowland swain or mountaineer
A gladness thrilling through the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear!

Sweet power! that on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as an infant's love!

Sweet power! that makest youthful heads,
With thistle, leek or shamrock crowned,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round!

Sweet power! that cheerest the daily toil
Of cottage maid or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrowed soil,
Or herd-boy on the lonely moor:

Or he by bards the Shepherd hight,
Who mourns his maiden's broken tie,
Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite,
Hath made a bliss of agony:

Sweet power of song! thanks flow to thee
From every kind and gentle breast!
Let Erin's — Cambria's minstrels be
With Burns's tuneful spirit blest!

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