Of the Nature of Things. T. Lucretius Carus

Thus, then, the All that is is limited

       In no one region of its onward paths,

       For then 'tmust have forever its beyond.

       And a beyond 'tis seen can never be

       For aught, unless still further on there be

       A somewhat somewhere that may bound the same--

       So that the thing be seen still on to where

       The nature of sensation of that thing

       Can follow it no longer. Now because

       Confess we must there's naught beside the sum,

       There's no beyond, and so it lacks all end.

       It matters nothing where thou post thyself,

       In whatsoever regions of the same;

       Even any place a man has set him down

       Still leaves about him the unbounded all

       Outward in all directions; or, supposing

       A moment the all of space finite to be,

       If some one farthest traveller runs forth

       Unto the extreme coasts and throws ahead

       A flying spear, is't then thy wish to think

       It goes, hurled off amain, to where 'twas sent

       And shoots afar, or that some object there

       Can thwart and stop it? For the one or other

       Thou must admit and take. Either of which

       Shuts off escape for thee, and does compel

       That thou concede the all spreads everywhere,

       Owning no confines. Since whether there be

       Aught that may block and check it so it comes

       Not where 'twas sent, nor lodges in its goal,

       Or whether borne along, in either view

       'Thas started not from any end. And so

       I'll follow on, and whereso'er thou set

       The extreme coasts, I'll query, "what becomes

       Thereafter of thy spear?" 'Twill come to pass

       That nowhere can a world's-end be, and that

       The chance for further flight prolongs forever

       The flight itself. Besides, were all the space

       Of the totality and sum shut in

       With fixed coasts, and bounded everywhere,

       Then would the abundance of world's matter flow

       Together by solid weight from everywhere

       Still downward to the bottom of the world,

       Nor aught could happen under cope of sky,

       Nor could there be a sky at all or sun--

       Indeed, where matter all one heap would lie,

       By having settled during infinite time.

       But in reality, repose is given

       Unto no bodies 'mongst the elements,

       Because there is no bottom whereunto

       They might, as 'twere, together flow, and where

       They might take up their undisturbed abodes.

       In endless motion everything goes on

       Forevermore; out of all regions, even

       Out of the pit below, from forth the vast,

       Are hurtled bodies evermore supplied.

       The nature of room, the space of the abyss

       Is such that even the flashing thunderbolts

       Can neither speed upon their courses through,

       Gliding across eternal tracts of time,

       Nor, further, bring to pass, as on they run,

       That they may bate their journeying one whit:

       Such huge abundance spreads for things around--

       Room off to every quarter, without end.

       Lastly, before our very eyes is seen

       Thing to bound thing: air hedges hill from hill,

       And mountain walls hedge air; land ends the sea,

       And sea in turn all lands; but for the All

       Truly is nothing which outside may bound.

       That, too, the sum of things itself may not

       Have power to fix a measure of its own,

       Great nature guards, she who compels the void

       To bound all body, as body all the void,

       Thus rendering by these alternates the whole

       An infinite; or else the one or other,

       Being unbounded by the other, spreads,

       Even by its single nature, ne'ertheless

       Immeasurably forth....

       Nor sea, nor earth, nor shining vaults of sky,

       Nor breed of mortals, nor holy limbs of gods

       Could keep their place least portion of an hour:

       For, driven apart from out its meetings fit,

       The stock of stuff, dissolved, would be borne

       Along the illimitable inane afar,

       Or rather, in fact, would ne'er have once combined

       And given a birth to aught, since, scattered wide,

       It could not be united. For of truth

       Neither by counsel did the primal germs

       'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind,

       Each in its proper place; nor did they make,

       Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move;

       But since, being many and changed in many modes

       Along the All, they're driven abroad and vexed

       By blow on blow, even from all time of old,

       They thus at last, after attempting all

       The kinds of motion and conjoining, come

       Into those great arrangements out of which

       This sum of things established is create,

       By which, moreover, through the mighty years,

       It is preserved, when once it has been thrown

       Into the proper motions, bringing to pass

       That ever the streams refresh the greedy main

       With river-waves abounding, and that earth,

       Lapped in warm exhalations of the sun,

       Renews her broods, and that the lusty race

       Of breathing creatures bears and blooms, and that

       The gliding fires of ether are alive--

       What still the primal germs nowise could do,

       Unless from out the infinite of space

       Could come supply of matter, whence in season

       They're wont whatever losses to repair.

       For as the nature of breathing creatures wastes,

       Losing its body, when deprived of food:

       So all things have to be dissolved as soon

       As matter, diverted by what means soever

       From off its course, shall fail to be on hand.

       Nor can the blows from outward still conserve,

       On every side, whatever sum of a world