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.

The Maid O' the Mill

by Charles Murray

−0.0414 + 0.0571i

Drawing the boundary…

An Old Picture

by John Boyle O'Reilly

−0.0669 + 0.0274i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Maid O' the Mill

by Charles Murray

The cushie doos are cooin' in the birk,
The pee-weets are cryin' on the lea,
The starlings in the belfry o' the kirk
Are layin' plans as merry as can be.
The mavis in the plantin' has a mate,
The blackbird is busy wi' his nest,
Then why until the summer should we wait
When spring could see us happy as the rest?

There's leaves upon the bourtree on the haugh,
The blossom is drappin' fae the gean,
There's buds upon the rantree an' the saugh,
The ferns about the Lady's Well are green.
A' day the herd is liltin' on the hill,
The o'ercome o' ilka sang's the same:
"There are ower mony maidens at the Mill,
It's time the ane I trysted wi' cam' hame!"

An Old Picture

by John Boyle O'Reilly

There are times when a dream delicious 
Steals into a musing hour, 
Like a face with love capricious 
That peeps from a woodland bower; 
And one dear scene comes changeless; 
A wooded hill and a river; 
A deep, cool bend, where the lilies end, 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

And I lie on the brink there, dreaming 
That the life I live is a dream; 
That the real is but the seeming, 
And the true is the sun-flecked stream. 
Beneath me, the perch and the bream sail past 
In the dim cool depths of the river; 
The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

There are voices of children away on the hill; 
There are bees thro’ the flag-flowers humming; 
The lighter-man calls to the lock, and the mill 
On the farther side is drumming. 
And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream, 
In the grass by the brink of a river, 
Where the voices blend and the lilies end 
And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 

Like a gift from the past is the kindly dream, 
For the sorrow and passion and pain 
Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of the stream, 
And the child-life comes again. 
O, the sweet sweet pain of a joy that died— 
Of a pain that is joy forever! 
O, the life that died in the stormy tide 
That was once my sun-flecked river. 

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