Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.041 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.

Ruth

by Thomas Hood

−0.6863 − 0.6993i

Drawing the boundary…

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank

by A.E.Housman

−0.6485 − 0.6843i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Ruth

by Thomas Hood

She stood breast high amid the corn
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen'd;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veil'd a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;—
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:—

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank

by A.E.Housman

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
 The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
 Fast by the four cross ways.

A careless shepherd once would keep
 The flocks by moonlight there,
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
 The dead man stood on air.

They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
 The whistles blow forlorn,
And trains all night groan on the rail
 To men that die at morn.

There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
 Or wakes, as may betide,
A better lad, if things went right,
 Than most that sleep outside.

And naked to the hangman's noose
 The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
 Than strangling in a string.

And sharp the link of life will snap,
 And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
 As treads upon the land.

So here I'll watch the night and wait
 To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
 And not the stroke of nine;

And wish my friend as sound a sleep
 As lads' I did not know,
That shepherded the moonlit sheep
 A hundred years ago.

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