Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.027 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 Oak Tree

by Edgar Lee Masters

−0.5759 − 0.6353i

Drawing the boundary…

On Righteous Indignation

by G. K. Chesterton

−0.5845 − 0.6606i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Oak Tree

by Edgar Lee Masters

The oak in later August,
Before his leaves are strewn,
And the sky is blue as June,
Trembles from trunk to branches
For frosts that will be soon
From the valleys of the moon!

For breezes blown in August
Veer north with cold and rain;
And the oak tree sighs and shivers
For lights that shift and wane:
As a strong man sees the specters
Of age, disease and pain,
The oak flings up to heaven
His branches in the rain.

September comes, September
Spreads out a sky that chills.
The owl hoots and the cricket
Beside the roadway shrills,
And on the stricken hills.
But the oak tree, the oak tree
Still flaunts his shining leaves.
No change has come but swallows
Who fled the summer eaves!

But when October breezes,
And cold November gales
Descend upon the oak tree,
What strength of him avails,
Grown naked to the tempest
For life that sleeps and fails?
O oak tree, oak tree,
The winter snow prevails!
It cannot be your branches,
It is the wind that wails!

On Righteous Indignation

by G. K. Chesterton

When Adam went from Paradise
  He saw the Sword and ran;
The dreadful shape, the new device,
The pointed end of Paradise,
And saw what Peril is and Price,
  And knew he was a man.

When Adam went from Paradise,
  He turned him back and cried
For a little flower from Paradise;
There came no flower from Paradise;
The woods were dark in Paradise,
  And not a bird replied.

For only comfort or contempt,
  For jest or great reward,
Over the walls of Paradise,
The flameless gates of Paradise,
The dumb shut doors of Paradise,
  God flung the flaming sword.

It burns the hand that holds it
  More than the skull it scores;
It doubles like a snake and stings,
Yet he in whose hand it swings
He is the most masterful of things,
  A scorner of the stars.

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