Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.080 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.

There's nothing like the sun

by Edward Thomas

−0.4756 + 1.1850i

Drawing the boundary…

To follow the fox

by Dylan Thomas

−0.3983 + 1.2069i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

There's nothing like the sun

by Edward Thomas

There's nothing like the sun as the year dies,
Kind as it can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountain side or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning's storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March's sun,
Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's,
Or January's, or February's, great days:
And August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said—
Or, if I could live long enough, should say—
'There's nothing like the sun that shines today.'
There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.

To follow the fox

by Dylan Thomas

To follow the fox at the hounds’ tails
And at their baying move a tailor’s inch
To follow, wild as the chicken stealer,
Scent through the clutches of the heather,
Leads to fool’s paradise where the redcoated killer
Deserves no brush, but a fool’s ambush.
Following the nose down dell, up rise
Into the map-backed hills where paths
Cross all directions, bracken points to the skies,
Leads, too, to a lead pit, whinny and fall,
No fox, no good, fool’s, not a fox’s, hole,
And that is the reward of labour
Through heath and heather at the mind’s will.
To follow the nose if the nose goes
Wisely at the dogs’ tails, leads
Through easier heather to the foul lair
Over a road thick with the bones of words.
If hunting means anything more than the chase
On a mare’s back of a mare’s nest or a goose,
Then only over corpses shall the feet tread,
Crunching the already broken,
And this way leads to good and bad,
Where more than snails are friends.

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