Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.019 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 Grave-Digger

by Anne Whitney

0.0487 − 0.5163i

Drawing the boundary…

The Other Side of a Mirror

by Mary Coleridge

0.0469 − 0.4973i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Grave-Digger

by Anne Whitney

As pleasant a man as you would see,
Native or foreign, to vouch I dare;
His laugh was hoarse but full of glee,
Indifferent when or where.

But most in graves the old man kept
His singular jubilee;
He roared at what most others wept;
His life was a funeral glee.

He had no rival in his trade:
He knew, one after another,
All the village would need his axe and spade,
And troubled himself no further.

His love and duty were never at strife—
His charity looked to all;
He seemed to think his lease on life
Long as death held carnival.

He reasoned, "Well, 'tis nature's creed
And man's chief want—is burial."
The friend of the world in its sorest need,
Could the world then spare him well?

The Other Side of a Mirror

by Mary Coleridge

I sat before my glass one day,
And conjured up a vision bare,
Unlike the aspects glad and gay,
That erst were found reflected there —
The vision of a woman, wild
With more than womanly despair.

Her hair stood back on either side
A face bereft of loveliness.
It had no envy now to hide
What once no man on earth could guess.
It formed the thorny aureole
Of hard, unsanctified distress.

Her lips were open — not a sound
Came though the parted lines of red,
Whate'er it was, the hideous wound
In silence and secret bled.
No sigh relieved her speechless woe,
She had no voice to speak her dread.

And in her lurid eyes there shone
The dying flame of life's desire,
Made mad because its hope was gone,
And kindled at the leaping fire
Of jealousy and fierce revenge,
And strength that could not change nor tire.

Shade of a shadow in the glass,
O set the crystal surface free!
Pass — as the fairer visions pass —
Nor ever more return, to be
The ghost of a distracted hour,
That heard me whisper, "I am she!"

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