On the Nature of Things

     Now learn of what remains! More keenly hear!     And for myself, my mind is not deceived     How dark it is: But the large hope of praise     Hath strook with pointed thyrsus through my heart;     On the same hour hath strook into my breast     Sweet love of the Muses, wherewith now instinct,     I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,     Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,     Trodden by step of none before. I joy     To come on undefiled fountains there,     To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,     To seek for this my head a signal crown     From regions where the Muses never yet     Have garlanded the temples of a man:     First, since I teach concerning mighty things,     And go right on to loose from round the mind     The tightened coils of dread religion;     Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame     Songs so pellucid, touching all throughout     Even with the Muses' charm—which, as 'twould seem,     Is not without a reasonable ground:     But as physicians, when they seek to give     Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch     The brim around the cup with the sweet juice     And yellow of the honey, in order that     The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled     As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down     The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled,     Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus     Grow strong again with recreated health:     So now I too (since this my doctrine seems     In general somewhat woeful unto those     Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd     Starts back from it in horror) have desired     To expound our doctrine unto thee in song     Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere,     To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse—     If by such method haply I might hold     The mind of thee upon these lines of ours,     Till thou see through the nature of all things,     And how exists the interwoven frame.     But since I've taught that bodies of matter, made     Completely solid, hither and thither fly     Forevermore unconquered through all time,     Now come, and whether to the sum of them     There be a limit or be none, for thee     Let us unfold; likewise what has been found     To be the wide inane, or room, or space     Wherein all things soever do go on,     Let us examine if it finite be     All and entire, or reach unmeasured round     And downward an illimitable profound.     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     Has been united in a whole. They can     Indeed, by frequent beating, check a part,     Till others arriving may fulfil the sum;     But meanwhile often are they forced to spring     Rebounding back, and, as they spring, to yield,     Unto those elements whence a world derives,     Room and a time for flight, permitting them     To be from off the massy union borne     Free and afar. Wherefore, again, again:     Needs must there come a many for supply;     And also, that the blows themselves shall be     Unfailing ever, must there ever be     An infinite force of matter all sides round.     And in these problems, shrink, my Memmius, far     From yielding faith to that notorious talk:     That all things inward to the centre press;     And thus the nature of the world stands firm     With never blows from outward, nor can be     Nowhere disparted—since all height and depth     Have always inward to the centre pressed     (If thou art ready to believe that aught     Itself can rest upon itself ); or that     The ponderous bodies which be under earth     Do all press upwards and do come to rest     Upon the earth, in some way upside down,     Like to those images of things we see     At present through the waters. They contend,     With like procedure, that all breathing things     Head downward roam about, and yet cannot     Tumble from earth to realms of sky below,     No more than these our bodies wing away     Spontaneously to vaults of sky above;     That, when those creatures look upon the sun,     We view the constellations of the night;     And that with us the seasons of the sky     They thus alternately divide, and thus     Do pass the night coequal to our days,     But a vain error has given these dreams to fools,     Which they've embraced with reasoning perverse     For centre none can be where world is still     Boundless, nor yet, if now a centre were,     Could aught take there a fixed position more     Than for some other cause 'tmight be dislodged.     For all of room and space we call the void     Must both through centre and non-centre yield     Alike to weights where'er their motions tend.     Nor is there any place, where, when they've come,     Bodies can be at standstill in the void,     Deprived of force of weight; nor yet may void     Furnish support to any,—nay, it must,     True to its bent of nature, still give way.     Thus in such manner not at all can things     Be held in union, as if overcome     By craving for a centre.                                  But besides,     Seeing they feign that not all bodies press     To centre inward, rather only those     Of earth and water (liquid of the sea,     And the big billows from the mountain slopes,     And whatsoever are encased, as 'twere,     In earthen body), contrariwise, they teach     How the thin air, and with it the hot fire,     Is borne asunder from the centre, and how,     For this all ether quivers with bright stars,     And the sun's flame along the blue is fed     (Because the heat, from out the centre flying,     All gathers there), and how, again, the boughs     Upon the tree-tops could not sprout their leaves,     Unless, little by little, from out the earth     For each were nutriment…     Lest, after the manner of the winged flames,     The ramparts of the world should flee away,     Dissolved amain throughout the mighty void,     And lest all else should likewise follow after,     Aye, lest the thundering vaults of heaven should burst     And splinter upward, and the earth forthwith     Withdraw from under our feet, and all its bulk,     Among its mingled wrecks and those of heaven,     With slipping asunder of the primal seeds,     Should pass, along the immeasurable inane,     Away forever, and, that instant, naught     Of wrack and remnant would be left, beside     The desolate space, and germs invisible.     For on whatever side thou deemest first     The primal bodies lacking, lo, that side     Will be for things the very door of death:     Wherethrough the throng of matter all will dash,     Out and abroad.                    These points, if thou wilt ponder,     Then, with but paltry trouble led along…     For one thing after other will grow clear,     Nor shall the blind night rob thee of the road,     To hinder thy gaze on nature's Farthest-forth.     Thus things for things shall kindle torches new.

BOOK II

PROEM

     'Tis sweet, when, down the mighty main, the winds     Roll up its waste of waters, from the land     To watch another's labouring anguish far,     Not that we joyously delight that man     Should thus be smitten, but because 'tis sweet     To mark what evils we ourselves be spared;     'Tis sweet, again, to view the mighty strife     Of armies embattled yonder o'er the plains,     Ourselves no sharers in the peril; but naught     There is more goodly than to hold the high     Serene plateaus, well fortressed by the wise,     Whence thou may'st look below on other men     And see them ev'rywhere wand'ring, all dispersed     In their lone seeking for the road of life;     Rivals in genius, or emulous in rank,     Pressing through days and nights with hugest toil     For summits of power and mastery of the world.     O wretched minds of men! O blinded hearts!     In how great perils, in what darks of life     Are spent the human years, however brief!—     O not to see that nature for herself     Barks after nothing, save that pain keep off,     Disjoined from the body, and that mind enjoy     Delightsome feeling, far from care and fear!     Therefore we see that our corporeal life     Needs little, altogether, and only such     As takes the pain away, and can besides     Strew underneath some number of delights.     More grateful 'tis at times (for nature craves     No artifice nor luxury), if forsooth     There be no golden images of boys     Along the halls, with right hands holding out     The lamps ablaze, the lights for evening feasts,     And if the house doth glitter not with gold     Nor gleam with silver, and to the lyre resound     No fretted and gilded ceilings overhead,     Yet still to lounge with friends in the soft grass     Beside a river of water, underneath     A big tree's boughs, and merrily to refresh     Our frames, with no vast outlay—most of all     If the weather is laughing and the times of the year     Besprinkle the green of the grass around with flowers.     Nor yet the quicker will hot fevers go,     If on a pictured tapestry thou toss,     Or purple robe, than if 'tis thine to lie     Upon the poor man's bedding. Wherefore, since     Treasure, nor rank, nor glory of a reign     Avail us naught for this our body, thus     Reckon them likewise nothing for the mind:     Save then perchance, when thou beholdest forth     Thy legions swarming round the Field of Mars,     Rousing a mimic warfare—either side     Strengthened with large auxiliaries and horse,     Alike equipped with arms, alike inspired;     Or save when also thou beholdest forth     Thy fleets to swarm, deploying down the sea:     For then, by such bright circumstance abashed,     Religion pales and flees thy mind; O then     The fears of death leave heart so free of care.     But if we note how all this pomp at last     Is but a drollery and a mocking sport,     And of a truth man's dread, with cares at heels,     Dreads not these sounds of arms, these savage swords     But among kings and lords of all the world     Mingles undaunted, nor is overawed     By gleam of gold nor by the splendour bright     Of purple robe, canst thou then doubt that this     Is aught, but power of thinking?—when, besides     The whole of life but labours in the dark.     For just as children tremble and fear all     In the viewless dark, so even we at times     Dread in the light so many things that be     No whit more fearsome than what children feign,     Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.     This terror then, this darkness of the mind,     Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,     Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse,     But only nature's aspect and her law.

ATOMIC MOTIONS

     Now come: I will untangle for thy steps     Now by what motions the begetting bodies     Of the world-stuff beget the varied world,     And then forever resolve it when begot,     And by what force they are constrained to this,     And what the speed appointed unto them     Wherewith to travel down the vast inane:     Do thou remember to yield thee to my words.     For truly matter coheres not, crowds not tight,     Since we behold each thing to wane away,     And we observe how all flows on and off,     As 'twere, with age-old time, and from our eyes     How eld withdraws each object at the end,     Albeit the sum is seen to bide the same,     Unharmed, because these motes that leave each thing     Diminish what they part from, but endow     With increase those to which in turn they come,     Constraining these to wither in old age,     And those to flower at the prime (and yet     Biding not long among them). Thus the sum     Forever is replenished, and we live     As mortals by eternal give and take.     The nations wax, the nations wane away;     In a brief space the generations pass,     And like to runners hand the lamp of life     One unto other.                          But if thou believe     That the primordial germs of things can stop,     And in their stopping give new motions birth,     Afar thou wanderest from the road of truth.     For since they wander through the void inane,     All the primordial germs of things must needs     Be borne along, either by weight their own,     Or haply by another's blow without.     For, when, in their incessancy so oft     They meet and clash, it comes to pass amain     They leap asunder, face to face: not strange—     Being most hard, and solid in their weights,     And naught opposing motion, from behind.     And that more clearly thou perceive how all     These mites of matter are darted round about,     Recall to mind how nowhere in the sum     Of All exists a bottom,—nowhere is     A realm of rest for primal bodies; since     (As amply shown and proved by reason sure)     Space has no bound nor measure, and extends     Unmetered forth in all directions round.     Since this stands certain, thus 'tis out of doubt     No rest is rendered to the primal bodies     Along the unfathomable inane; but rather,     Inveterately plied by motions mixed,     Some, at their jamming, bound aback and leave     Huge gaps between, and some from off the blow     Are hurried about with spaces small between.     And all which, brought together with slight gaps,     In more condensed union bound aback,     Linked by their own all inter-tangled shapes,—     These form the irrefragable roots of rocks     And the brute bulks of iron, and what else     Is of their kind…     The rest leap far asunder, far recoil,     Leaving huge gaps between: and these supply     For us thin air and splendour-lights of the sun.     And many besides wander the mighty void—     Cast back from unions of existing things,     Nowhere accepted in the universe,     And nowise linked in motions to the rest.     And of this fact (as I record it here)     An image, a type goes on before our eyes     Present each moment; for behold whenever     The sun's light and the rays, let in, pour down     Across dark halls of houses: thou wilt see     The many mites in many a manner mixed     Amid a void in the very light of the rays,     And battling on, as in eternal strife,     And in battalions contending without halt,     In meetings, partings, harried up and down.     From this thou mayest conjecture of what sort     The ceaseless tossing of primordial seeds     Amid the mightier void—at least so far     As small affair can for a vaster serve,     And by example put thee on the spoor     Of knowledge. For this reason too 'tis fit     Thou turn thy mind the more unto these bodies     Which here are witnessed tumbling in the light:     Namely, because such tumblings are a sign     That motions also of the primal stuff     Secret and viewless lurk beneath, behind.     For thou wilt mark here many a speck, impelled     By viewless blows, to change its little course,     And beaten backwards to return again,     Hither and thither in all directions round.     Lo, all their shifting movement is of old,     From the primeval atoms; for the same     Primordial seeds of things first move of self,     And then those bodies built of unions small     And nearest, as it were, unto the powers     Of the primeval atoms, are stirred up     By impulse of those atoms' unseen blows,     And these thereafter goad the next in size:     Thus motion ascends from the primevals on,     And stage by stage emerges to our sense,     Until those objects also move which we     Can mark in sunbeams, though it not appears     What blows do urge them.                             Herein wonder not     How 'tis that, while the seeds of things are all     Moving forever, the sum yet seems to stand     Supremely still, except in cases where     A thing shows motion of its frame as whole.     For far beneath the ken of senses lies     The nature of those ultimates of the world;     And so, since those themselves thou canst not see,     Their motion also must they veil from men—     For mark, indeed, how things we can see, oft     Yet hide their motions, when afar from us     Along the distant landscape. Often thus,     Upon a hillside will the woolly flocks     Be cropping their goodly food and creeping about     Whither the summons of the grass, begemmed     With the fresh dew, is calling, and the lambs,     Well filled, are frisking, locking horns in sport:     Yet all for us seem blurred and blent afar—     A glint of white at rest on a green hill.     Again, when mighty legions, marching round,     Fill all the quarters of the plains below,     Rousing a mimic warfare, there the sheen     Shoots up the sky, and all the fields about     Glitter with brass, and from beneath, a sound     Goes forth from feet of stalwart soldiery,     And mountain walls, smote by the shouting, send     The voices onward to the stars of heaven,     And hither and thither darts the cavalry,     And of a sudden down the midmost fields     Charges with onset stout enough to rock     The solid earth: and yet some post there is     Up the high mountains, viewed from which they seem     To stand—a gleam at rest along the plains.      Now what the speed to matter's atoms given     Thou mayest in few, my Memmius, learn from this:     When first the dawn is sprinkling with new light     The lands, and all the breed of birds abroad     Flit round the trackless forests, with liquid notes     Filling the regions along the mellow air,     We see 'tis forthwith manifest to man     How suddenly the risen sun is wont     At such an hour to overspread and clothe     The whole with its own splendour; but the sun's     Warm exhalations and this serene light     Travel not down an empty void; and thus     They are compelled more slowly to advance,     Whilst, as it were, they cleave the waves of air;     Nor one by one travel these particles     Of the warm exhalations, but are all     Entangled and enmassed, whereby at once     Each is restrained by each, and from without     Checked, till compelled more slowly to advance.     But the primordial atoms with their old     Simple solidity, when forth they travel     Along the empty void, all undelayed     By aught outside them there, and they, each one     Being one unit from nature of its parts,     Are borne to that one place on which they strive     Still to lay hold, must then, beyond a doubt,     Outstrip in speed, and be more swiftly borne     Than light of sun, and over regions rush,     Of space much vaster, in the self-same time     The sun's effulgence widens round the sky.     Nor to pursue the atoms one by one,     To see the law whereby each thing goes on.     But some men, ignorant of matter, think,     Opposing this, that not without the gods,     In such adjustment to our human ways,     Can nature change the seasons of the years,     And bring to birth the grains and all of else     To which divine Delight, the guide of life,     Persuades mortality and leads it on,     That, through her artful blandishments of love,     It propagate the generations still,     Lest humankind should perish. When they feign     That gods have stablished all things but for man,     They seem in all ways mightily to lapse     From reason's truth: for ev'n if ne'er I knew     What seeds primordial are, yet would I dare     This to affirm, ev'n from deep judgment based     Upon the ways and conduct of the skies—     This to maintain by many a fact besides—     That in no wise the nature of the world     For us was builded by a power divine—     So great the faults it stands encumbered with:     The which, my Memmius, later on, for thee     We will clear up. Now as to what remains     Concerning motions we'll unfold our thought.     Now is the place, meseems, in these affairs     To prove for thee this too: nothing corporeal     Of its own force can e'er be upward borne,     Or upward go—nor let the bodies of flames     Deceive thee here: for they engendered are     With urge to upwards, taking thus increase,     Whereby grow upwards shining grains and trees,     Though all the weight within them downward bears.     Nor, when the fires will leap from under round     The roofs of houses, and swift flame laps up     Timber and beam, 'tis then to be supposed     They act of own accord, no force beneath     To urge them up. 'Tis thus that blood, discharged     From out our bodies, spurts its jets aloft     And spatters gore. And hast thou never marked     With what a force the water will disgorge     Timber and beam? The deeper, straight and down,     We push them in, and, many though we be,     The more we press with main and toil, the more     The water vomits up and flings them back,     That, more than half their length, they there emerge,     Rebounding. Yet we never doubt, meseems,     That all the weight within them downward bears     Through empty void. Well, in like manner, flames     Ought also to be able, when pressed out,     Through winds of air to rise aloft, even though     The weight within them strive to draw them down.     Hast thou not seen, sweeping so far and high,     The meteors, midnight flambeaus of the sky,     How after them they draw long trails of flame     Wherever Nature gives a thoroughfare?     How stars and constellations drop to earth,     Seest not? Nay, too, the sun from peak of heaven     Sheds round to every quarter its large heat,     And sows the new-ploughed intervales with light:     Thus also sun's heat downward tends to earth.     Athwart the rain thou seest the lightning fly;     Now here, now there, bursting from out the clouds,     The fires dash zig-zag—and that flaming power     Falls likewise down to earth.                                 In these affairs     We wish thee also well aware of this:     The atoms, as their own weight bears them down     Plumb through the void, at scarce determined times,     In scarce determined places, from their course     Decline a little—call it, so to speak,     Mere changed trend. For were it not their wont     Thuswise to swerve, down would they fall, each one,     Like drops of rain, through the unbottomed void;     And then collisions ne'er could be nor blows     Among the primal elements; and thus     Nature would never have created aught.     But, if perchance be any that believe     The heavier bodies, as more swiftly borne     Plumb down the void, are able from above     To strike the lighter, thus engendering blows     Able to cause those procreant motions, far     From highways of true reason they retire.     For whatsoever through the waters fall,     Or through thin air, must quicken their descent,     Each after its weight—on this account, because     Both bulk of water and the subtle air     By no means can retard each thing alike,     But give more quick before the heavier weight;     But contrariwise the empty void cannot,     On any side, at any time, to aught     Oppose resistance, but will ever yield,     True to its bent of nature. Wherefore all,     With equal speed, though equal not in weight,     Must rush, borne downward through the still inane.     Thus ne'er at all have heavier from above     Been swift to strike the lighter, gendering strokes     Which cause those divers motions, by whose means     Nature transacts her work. And so I say,     The atoms must a little swerve at times—     But only the least, lest we should seem to feign     Motions oblique, and fact refute us there.     For this we see forthwith is manifest:     Whatever the weight, it can't obliquely go,     Down on its headlong journey from above,     At least so far as thou canst mark; but who     Is there can mark by sense that naught can swerve     At all aside from off its road's straight line?     Again, if ev'r all motions are co-linked,     And from the old ever arise the new     In fixed order, and primordial seeds     Produce not by their swerving some new start     Of motion to sunder the covenants of fate,     That cause succeed not cause from everlasting,     Whence this free will for creatures o'er the lands,     Whence is it wrested from the fates,—this will     Whereby we step right forward where desire     Leads each man on, whereby the same we swerve     In motions, not as at some fixed time,     Nor at some fixed line of space, but where     The mind itself has urged? For out of doubt     In these affairs 'tis each man's will itself     That gives the start, and hence throughout our limbs     Incipient motions are diffused. Again,     Dost thou not see, when, at a point of time,     The bars are opened, how the eager strength     Of horses cannot forward break as soon     As pants their mind to do? For it behooves     That all the stock of matter, through the frame,     Be roused, in order that, through every joint,     Aroused, it press and follow mind's desire;     So thus thou seest initial motion's gendered     From out the heart, aye, verily, proceeds     First from the spirit's will, whence at the last     'Tis given forth through joints and body entire.     Quite otherwise it is, when forth we move,     Impelled by a blow of another's mighty powers     And mighty urge; for then 'tis clear enough     All matter of our total body goes,     Hurried along, against our own desire—     Until the will has pulled upon the reins     And checked it back, throughout our members all;     At whose arbitrament indeed sometimes     The stock of matter's forced to change its path,     Throughout our members and throughout our joints,     And, after being forward cast, to be     Reined up, whereat it settles back again.     So seest thou not, how, though external force     Drive men before, and often make them move,     Onward against desire, and headlong snatched,     Yet is there something in these breasts of ours     Strong to combat, strong to withstand the same?—     Wherefore no less within the primal seeds     Thou must admit, besides all blows and weight,     Some other cause of motion, whence derives     This power in us inborn, of some free act.—     Since naught from nothing can become, we see.     For weight prevents all things should come to pass     Through blows, as 'twere, by some external force;     But that man's mind itself in all it does     Hath not a fixed necessity within,     Nor is not, like a conquered thing, compelled     To bear and suffer,—this state comes to man     From that slight swervement of the elements     In no fixed line of space, in no fixed time.     Nor ever was the stock of stuff more crammed,     Nor ever, again, sundered by bigger gaps:     For naught gives increase and naught takes away;     On which account, just as they move to-day,     The elemental bodies moved of old     And shall the same hereafter evermore.     And what was wont to be begot of old     Shall be begotten under selfsame terms     And grow and thrive in power, so far as given     To each by Nature's changeless, old decrees.     The sum of things there is no power can change,     For naught exists outside, to which can flee     Out of the world matter of any kind,     Nor forth from which a fresh supply can spring,     Break in upon the founded world, and change     Whole nature of things, and turn their motions about.