Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.007 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.

Now

by Violet Fane

−0.4038 − 0.0860i

Drawing the boundary…

A Sheep Fair

by Thomas Hardy

−0.4055 − 0.0790i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Now

by Violet Fane

This is!…The moments will not stay their wings;
To-morrow presses; it is still "To-day";
Shall we stretch arms and snatch at what it brings?
                                 Say, darling, say!

The great grave clock's two hands, uplifted, seem
Mutely reproachful. They will scarcely veer
One poor inch onward when our life-long dream
                                 To-day, is here!

And after?…Will it turn to dream, or less?
A fading memory to you and me?..
Nay, till we make the venture dare we guess
                                 What it will be?

This is!…The moments will not stay their wings;
To-morrow presses; it is still "To-day";
Shall we stretch arms and snatch at what it brings?
                                  Say, darling, say!

A Sheep Fair

by Thomas Hardy

The day arrives of the autumn fair,
And torrents fall,
Though sheep in throngs are gathered there,
Ten thousand all,
Sodden, with hurdles round them reared:
And, lot by lot, the pens are cleared,
And the auctioneer wrings out his beard,
And wipes his book, bedrenched and smeared,
And rakes the rain from his face with the edge of his hand,
As torrents fall.

The wool of the ewes is like a sponge
With the daylong rain:
Jammed tight, to turn, or lie, or lunge,
They strive in vain.
Their horns are soft as finger-nails,
Their shepherds reek against the rails,
The tied dogs soak with tucked-in tails,
The buyers' hat-brims fill like pails,
Which spill small cascades when they shift their stand
In the daylong rain.

Postcript

Time has trailed lengthily since met
At Pummery Fair
Those panting thousands in their wet
And woolly wear:
And every flock long since has bled,
And all the dripping buyers have sped,
And the hoarse auctioneer is dead,
Who 'Going — going!' so often said,
As he consigned to doom each meek, mewed band
At Pummery Fair.

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