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Demo page content and styling
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anfragment committed May 6, 2024
1 parent e2ad616 commit 72e7281
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94 changes: 93 additions & 1 deletion demo/index.html
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<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<title>Encursors Demo</title>
<link rel="stylesheet" href="./style.css">
</head>
<body>
<main style="display: flex; justify-content: center; align-items: center; height: 100vh;">
<main>
<h1>Encursors Demo</h1>

<h3>
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost
</h3>
<p>
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
</p>

<h3>
Lines Written in Early Spring, by William Wordsworth
</h3>
<p>
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
</p>

<h3>
The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver
</h3>
<p>
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
</p>

<h3>
To Autumn, by John Keats
</h3>
<p>
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
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And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
</p>
</main>

<script data-api-url="prod-encursors-ypdi.encr.app" src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/gh/anfragment/encursors@latest/script/dist/cursors.min.js"></script>
</body>
</html>
16 changes: 16 additions & 0 deletions demo/style.css
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html, body {
background: #f0f0f0;
font-family: Avenir, Montserrat, Corbel, 'URW Gothic', source-sans-pro, sans-serif;
font-weight: normal;
}

main {
max-width: 600px;
margin: 0 auto;
}

p {
white-space: pre-line;
margin-top: 0;
margin-bottom: 3em;
}

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