On the Nature of Things. Тит Лукреций Кар

           '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.