Love that is dead and buried, yesterday Out of his grave rose up before my face, No recognition in his look, no trace Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey. While I, remembering, found no word to say, But felt my quickened heart leap in its place; Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days, Caught echoes of all music passed away. Was this indeed to meet?—I mind me yet In youth we met when hope and love were quick, We parted with hope dead, but love alive: I mind me how we parted then heart sick, Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:— Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.
Why am I sorry, chloe? because the moon is far: And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star?
Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been, The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen.
Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot, I can not find a ferry to the land where I am not.
Because thy lips are red and thy breasts upbraid the snow? (There is neither white nor red in the pleasance where I go.)
Because thy lips grow pale and thy breasts grow dun and fall? I go where the wind blows, Chloe, and am not sorry at all.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.