Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.039 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.

Kinsey Keene

by Edgar Lee Masters

−0.1059 + 1.2287i

Drawing the boundary…

The Maid’s Lament

by Walter Savage Landor

−0.0671 + 1.2247i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Kinsey Keene

by Edgar Lee Masters

Your attention, Thomas Rhodes, president of the bank;
Coolbaugh Whedon, editor of the Argus;
Rev. Peet, pastor of the leading church;
A. D. Blood, several times Mayor of Spoon River;
And finally all of you, members of the Social Purity Club—
Your attention to Cambronne's dying words,
Standing with the heroic remnant
Of Napoleon's guard on Mount Saint Jean
At the battlefield of Waterloo,
When Maitland, the Englishman, called to them,
"Surrender, brave Frenchmen!"—
There at close of day, with the battle hopelessly lost,
And hordes of men, no longer the army
Of the great Napoleon,
Streamed from the field like ragged strips
Of thunder clouds in the storm.
Well, what Cambronne said to Maitland,
Ere the English fire made smooth the brow of the hill
Against the sinking light of day,
Say I to you, and all of you,
And to you, O world.
And I charge you to carve it
Upon my stone.

The Maid’s Lament

by Walter Savage Landor

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.
I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
’Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears.
Merciful God! such was his latest prayer,
These may she never share.
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life’s brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,
And oh! pray too for me!

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