On the Nature of Things

INFINITE WORLDS

     Once more, we all from seed celestial spring,     To all is that same father, from whom earth,     The fostering mother, as she takes the drops     Of liquid moisture, pregnant bears her broods—     The shining grains, and gladsome shrubs and trees,     And bears the human race and of the wild     The generations all, the while she yields     The foods wherewith all feed their frames and lead     The genial life and propagate their kind;     Wherefore she owneth that maternal name,     By old desert. What was before from earth,     The same in earth sinks back, and what was sent     From shores of ether, that, returning home,     The vaults of sky receive. Nor thus doth death     So far annihilate things that she destroys     The bodies of matter; but she dissipates     Their combinations, and conjoins anew     One element with others; and contrives     That all things vary forms and change their colours     And get sensations and straight give them o'er.     And thus may'st know it matters with what others     And in what structure the primordial germs     Are held together, and what motions they     Among themselves do give and get; nor think     That aught we see hither and thither afloat     Upon the crest of things, and now a birth     And straightway now a ruin, inheres at rest     Deep in the eternal atoms of the world.     Why, even in these our very verses here     It matters much with what and in what order     Each element is set: the same denote     Sky, and the ocean, lands, and streams, and sun;     The same, the grains, and trees, and living things.     And if not all alike, at least the most—     But what distinctions by positions wrought!     And thus no less in things themselves, when once     Around are changed the intervals between,     The paths of matter, its connections, weights,     Blows, clashings, motions, order, structure, shapes,     The things themselves must likewise changed be.     Now to true reason give thy mind for us.     Since here strange truth is putting forth its might     To hit thee in thine ears, a new aspect     Of things to show its front. Yet naught there is     So easy that it standeth not at first     More hard to credit than it after is;     And naught soe'er that's great to such degree,     Nor wonderful so far, but all mankind     Little by little abandon their surprise.     Look upward yonder at the bright clear sky     And what it holds—the stars that wander o'er,     The moon, the radiance of the splendour-sun:     Yet all, if now they first for mortals were,     If unforeseen now first asudden shown,     What might there be more wonderful to tell,     What that the nations would before have dared     Less to believe might be?—I fancy, naught—     So strange had been the marvel of that sight.     The which o'erwearied to behold, to-day     None deigns look upward to those lucent realms.     Then, spew not reason from thy mind away,     Beside thyself because the matter's new,     But rather with keen judgment nicely weigh;     And if to thee it then appeareth true,     Render thy hands, or, if 'tis false at last,     Gird thee to combat. For my mind-of-man     Now seeks the nature of the vast Beyond     There on the other side, that boundless sum     Which lies without the ramparts of the world,     Toward which the spirit longs to peer afar,     Toward which indeed the swift elan of thought     Flies unencumbered forth.                               Firstly, we find,     Off to all regions round, on either side,     Above, beneath, throughout the universe     End is there none—as I have taught, as too     The very thing of itself declares aloud,     And as from nature of the unbottomed deep     Shines clearly forth. Nor can we once suppose     In any way 'tis likely, (seeing that space     To all sides stretches infinite and free,     And seeds, innumerable in number, in sum     Bottomless, there in many a manner fly,     Bestirred in everlasting motion there),     That only this one earth and sky of ours     Hath been create and that those bodies of stuff,     So many, perform no work outside the same;     Seeing, moreover, this world too hath been     By nature fashioned, even as seeds of things     By innate motion chanced to clash and cling—     After they'd been in many a manner driven     Together at random, without design, in vain—     And as at last those seeds together dwelt,     Which, when together of a sudden thrown,     Should alway furnish the commencements fit     Of mighty things—the earth, the sea, the sky,     And race of living creatures. Thus, I say,     Again, again, 'tmust be confessed there are     Such congregations of matter otherwhere,     Like this our world which vasty ether holds     In huge embrace.                      Besides, when matter abundant     Is ready there, when space on hand, nor object     Nor any cause retards, no marvel 'tis     That things are carried on and made complete,     Perforce. And now, if store of seeds there is     So great that not whole life-times of the living     Can count the tale…     And if their force and nature abide the same,     Able to throw the seeds of things together     Into their places, even as here are thrown     The seeds together in this world of ours,     'Tmust be confessed in other realms there are     Still other worlds, still other breeds of men,     And other generations of the wild.     Hence too it happens in the sum there is     No one thing single of its kind in birth,     And single and sole in growth, but rather it is     One member of some generated race,     Among full many others of like kind.     First, cast thy mind abroad upon the living:     Thou'lt find the race of mountain-ranging wild     Even thus to be, and thus the scions of men     To be begot, and lastly the mute flocks     Of scaled fish, and winged frames of birds.     Wherefore confess we must on grounds the same     That earth, sun, moon, and ocean, and all else,     Exist not sole and single—rather in number     Exceeding number. Since that deeply set     Old boundary stone of life remains for them     No less, and theirs a body of mortal birth     No less, than every kind which here on earth     Is so abundant in its members found.     Which well perceived if thou hold in mind,     Then Nature, delivered from every haughty lord,     And forthwith free, is seen to do all things     Herself and through herself of own accord,     Rid of all gods. For—by their holy hearts     Which pass in long tranquillity of peace     Untroubled ages and a serene life!—     Who hath the power (I ask), who hath the power     To rule the sum of the immeasurable,     To hold with steady hand the giant reins     Of the unfathomed deep? Who hath the power     At once to roll a multitude of skies,     At once to heat with fires ethereal all     The fruitful lands of multitudes of worlds,     To be at all times in all places near,     To stablish darkness by his clouds, to shake     The serene spaces of the sky with sound,     And hurl his lightnings,—ha, and whelm how oft     In ruins his own temples, and to rave,     Retiring to the wildernesses, there     At practice with that thunderbolt of his,     Which yet how often shoots the guilty by,     And slays the honourable blameless ones!     Ere since the birth-time of the world, ere since     The risen first-born day of sea, earth, sun,     Have many germs been added from outside,     Have many seeds been added round about,     Which the great All, the while it flung them on,     Brought hither, that from them the sea and lands     Could grow more big, and that the house of heaven     Might get more room and raise its lofty roofs     Far over earth, and air arise around.     For bodies all, from out all regions, are     Divided by blows, each to its proper thing,     And all retire to their own proper kinds:     The moist to moist retires; earth gets increase     From earthy body; and fires, as on a forge,     Beat out new fire; and ether forges ether;     Till nature, author and ender of the world,     Hath led all things to extreme bound of growth:     As haps when that which hath been poured inside     The vital veins of life is now no more     Than that which ebbs within them and runs off.     This is the point where life for each thing ends;     This is the point where nature with her powers     Curbs all increase. For whatsoe'er thou seest     Grow big with glad increase, and step by step     Climb upward to ripe age, these to themselves     Take in more bodies than they send from selves,     Whilst still the food is easily infused     Through all the veins, and whilst the things are not     So far expanded that they cast away     Such numerous atoms as to cause a waste     Greater than nutriment whereby they wax.     For 'tmust be granted, truly, that from things     Many a body ebbeth and runs off;     But yet still more must come, until the things     Have touched development's top pinnacle;     Then old age breaks their powers and ripe strength     And falls away into a worser part.     For ever the ampler and more wide a thing,     As soon as ever its augmentation ends,     It scatters abroad forthwith to all sides round     More bodies, sending them from out itself.     Nor easily now is food disseminate     Through all its veins; nor is that food enough     To equal with a new supply on hand     Those plenteous exhalations it gives off.     Thus, fairly, all things perish, when with ebbing     They're made less dense and when from blows without     They are laid low; since food at last will fail     Extremest eld, and bodies from outside     Cease not with thumping to undo a thing     And overmaster by infesting blows.     Thus, too, the ramparts of the mighty world     On all sides round shall taken be by storm,     And tumble to wrack and shivered fragments down.     For food it is must keep things whole, renewing;     'Tis food must prop and give support to all,—     But to no purpose, since nor veins suffice     To hold enough, nor nature ministers     As much as needful. And even now 'tis thus:     Its age is broken and the earth, outworn     With many parturitions, scarce creates     The little lives—she who created erst     All generations and gave forth at birth     Enormous bodies of wild beasts of old.     For never, I fancy, did a golden cord     From off the firmament above let down     The mortal generations to the fields;     Nor sea, nor breakers pounding on the rocks     Created them; but earth it was who bore—     The same to-day who feeds them from herself.     Besides, herself of own accord, she first     The shining grains and vineyards of all joy     Created for mortality; herself     Gave the sweet fruitage and the pastures glad,     Which now to-day yet scarcely wax in size,     Even when aided by our toiling arms.     We break the ox, and wear away the strength     Of sturdy farm-hands; iron tools to-day     Barely avail for tilling of the fields,     So niggardly they grudge our harvestings,     So much increase our labour. Now to-day     The aged ploughman, shaking of his head,     Sighs o'er and o'er that labours of his hands     Have fallen out in vain, and, as he thinks     How present times are not as times of old,     Often he praises the fortunes of his sire,     And crackles, prating, how the ancient race,     Fulfilled with piety, supported life     With simple comfort in a narrow plot,     Since, man for man, the measure of each field     Was smaller far i' the old days. And, again,     The gloomy planter of the withered vine     Rails at the season's change and wearies heaven,     Nor grasps that all of things by sure degrees     Are wasting away and going to the tomb,     Outworn by venerable length of life.

BOOK III

PROEM

     O thou who first uplifted in such dark     So clear a torch aloft, who first shed light     Upon the profitable ends of man,     O thee I follow, glory of the Greeks,     And set my footsteps squarely planted now     Even in the impress and the marks of thine—     Less like one eager to dispute the palm,     More as one craving out of very love     That I may copy thee!—for how should swallow     Contend with swans or what compare could be     In a race between young kids with tumbling legs     And the strong might of the horse? Our father thou,     And finder-out of truth, and thou to us     Suppliest a father's precepts; and from out     Those scriven leaves of thine, renowned soul     (Like bees that sip of all in flowery wolds),     We feed upon thy golden sayings all—     Golden, and ever worthiest endless life.     For soon as ever thy planning thought that sprang     From god-like mind begins its loud proclaim     Of nature's courses, terrors of the brain     Asunder flee, the ramparts of the world     Dispart away, and through the void entire     I see the movements of the universe.     Rises to vision the majesty of gods,     And their abodes of everlasting calm     Which neither wind may shake nor rain-cloud splash,     Nor snow, congealed by sharp frosts, may harm     With its white downfall: ever, unclouded sky     O'er roofs, and laughs with far-diffused light.     And nature gives to them their all, nor aught     May ever pluck their peace of mind away.     But nowhere to my vision rise no more     The vaults of Acheron, though the broad earth     Bars me no more from gazing down o'er all     Which under our feet is going on below     Along the void. O, here in these affairs     Some new divine delight and trembling awe     Takes hold through me, that thus by power of thine     Nature, so plain and manifest at last,     Hath been on every side laid bare to man!     And since I've taught already of what sort     The seeds of all things are, and how, distinct     In divers forms, they flit of own accord,     Stirred with a motion everlasting on,     And in what mode things be from them create,     Now, after such matters, should my verse, meseems,     Make clear the nature of the mind and soul,     And drive that dread of Acheron without,     Headlong, which so confounds our human life     Unto its deeps, pouring o'er all that is     The black of death, nor leaves not anything     To prosper—a liquid and unsullied joy.     For as to what men sometimes will affirm:     That more than Tartarus (the realm of death)     They fear diseases and a life of shame,     And know the substance of the soul is blood,     Or rather wind (if haply thus their whim),     And so need naught of this our science, then     Thou well may'st note from what's to follow now     That more for glory do they braggart forth     Than for belief. For mark these very same:     Exiles from country, fugitives afar     From sight of men, with charges foul attaint,     Abased with every wretchedness, they yet     Live, and where'er the wretches come, they yet     Make the ancestral sacrifices there,     Butcher the black sheep, and to gods below     Offer the honours, and in bitter case     Turn much more keenly to religion.     Wherefore, it's surer testing of a man     In doubtful perils—mark him as he is     Amid adversities; for then alone     Are the true voices conjured from his breast,     The mask off-stripped, reality behind.     And greed, again, and the blind lust of honours     Which force poor wretches past the bounds of law,     And, oft allies and ministers of crime,     To push through nights and days with hugest toil     To rise untrammelled to the peaks of power—     These wounds of life in no mean part are kept     Festering and open by this fright of death.     For ever we see fierce Want and foul Disgrace     Dislodged afar from secure life and sweet,     Like huddling Shapes before the doors of death.     And whilst, from these, men wish to scape afar,     Driven by false terror, and afar remove,     With civic blood a fortune they amass,     They double their riches, greedy, heapers-up     Of corpse on corpse they have a cruel laugh     For the sad burial of a brother-born,     And hatred and fear of tables of their kin.     Likewise, through this same terror, envy oft     Makes them to peak because before their eyes     That man is lordly, that man gazed upon     Who walks begirt with honour glorious,     Whilst they in filth and darkness roll around;     Some perish away for statues and a name,     And oft to that degree, from fright of death,     Will hate of living and beholding light     Take hold on humankind that they inflict     Their own destruction with a gloomy heart—     Forgetful that this fear is font of cares,     This fear the plague upon their sense of shame,     And this that breaks the ties of comradry     And oversets all reverence and faith,     Mid direst slaughter. For long ere to-day     Often were traitors to country and dear parents     Through quest to shun the realms of Acheron.     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 sun disperse,     But only nature's aspect and her law.

NATURE AND COMPOSITION OF THE MIND

     First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call     The intellect, wherein is seated life's     Counsel and regimen, is part no less     Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts     Of one whole breathing creature. [But some hold]     That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,     But is of body some one vital state,—     Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby     We live with sense, though intellect be not     In any part: as oft the body is said     To have good health (when health, however, 's not     One part of him who has it), so they place     The sense of mind in no fixed part of man.     Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.     Often the body palpable and seen     Sickens, while yet in some invisible part     We feel a pleasure; oft the other way,     A miserable in mind feels pleasure still     Throughout his body—quite the same as when     A foot may pain without a pain in head.     Besides, when these our limbs are given o'er     To gentle sleep and lies the burdened frame     At random void of sense, a something else     Is yet within us, which upon that time     Bestirs itself in many a wise, receiving     All motions of joy and phantom cares of heart.     Now, for to see that in man's members dwells     Also the soul, and body ne'er is wont     To feel sensation by a "harmony"     Take this in chief: the fact that life remains     Oft in our limbs, when much of body's gone;     Yet that same life, when particles of heat,     Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouth     Air has been given forth abroad, forthwith     Forever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones.     Thus mayst thou know that not all particles     Perform like parts, nor in like manner all     Are props of weal and safety: rather those—     The seeds of wind and exhalations warm—     Take care that in our members life remains.     Therefore a vital heat and wind there is     Within the very body, which at death     Deserts our frames. And so, since nature of mind     And even of soul is found to be, as 'twere,     A part of man, give over "harmony"—     Name to musicians brought from Helicon,—     Unless themselves they filched it otherwise,     To serve for what was lacking name till then.     Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it—thou,     Hearken my other maxims.                                   Mind and soul,     I say, are held conjoined one with other,     And form one single nature of themselves;     But chief and regnant through the frame entire     Is still that counsel which we call the mind,     And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast.     Here leap dismay and terror; round these haunts     Be blandishments of joys; and therefore here     The intellect, the mind. The rest of soul,     Throughout the body scattered, but obeys—     Moved by the nod and motion of the mind.     This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought;     This for itself hath mirth, even when the thing     That moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all.     And as, when head or eye in us is smit     By assailing pain, we are not tortured then     Through all the body, so the mind alone     Is sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy,     Whilst yet the soul's remainder through the limbs     And through the frame is stirred by nothing new.     But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce,     We mark the whole soul suffering all at once     Along man's members: sweats and pallors spread     Over the body, and the tongue is broken,     And fails the voice away, and ring the ears,     Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,—     Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind.     Hence, whoso will can readily remark     That soul conjoined is with mind, and, when     'Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwith     In turn it hits and drives the body too.     And this same argument establisheth     That nature of mind and soul corporeal is:     For when 'tis seen to drive the members on,     To snatch from sleep the body, and to change     The countenance, and the whole state of man     To rule and turn,—what yet could never be     Sans contact, and sans body contact fails—     Must we not grant that mind and soul consist     Of a corporeal nature?—And besides     Thou markst that likewise with this body of ours     Suffers the mind and with our body feels.     If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bones     And bares the inner thews hits not the life,     Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse,     And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind,     And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot.     So nature of mind must be corporeal, since     From stroke and spear corporeal 'tis in throes.     Now, of what body, what components formed     Is this same mind I will go on to tell.     First, I aver, 'tis superfine, composed     Of tiniest particles—that such the fact     Thou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this:     Nothing is seen to happen with such speed     As what the mind proposes and begins;     Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftly     Than aught whose nature's palpable to eyes.     But what's so agile must of seeds consist     Most round, most tiny, that they may be moved,     When hit by impulse slight. So water moves,     In waves along, at impulse just the least—     Being create of little shapes that roll;     But, contrariwise, the quality of honey     More stable is, its liquids more inert,     More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matter     Cleaves more together, since, indeed, 'tis made     Of atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round.     For the light breeze that hovers yet can blow     High heaps of poppy-seed away for thee     Downward from off the top; but, contrariwise,     A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheat     It can't at all. Thus, in so far as bodies     Are small and smooth, is their mobility;     But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough,     The more immovable they prove. Now, then,     Since nature of mind is movable so much,     Consist it must of seeds exceeding small     And smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee,     Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else.     This also shows the nature of the same,     How nice its texture, in how small a space     'Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet:     When death's unvexed repose gets hold on man     And mind and soul retire, thou markest there     From the whole body nothing ta'en in form,     Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything,     But vital sense and exhalation hot.     Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds,     Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews,     Seeing that, when 'tis from whole body gone,     The outward figuration of the limbs     Is unimpaired and weight fails not a whit.     Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine,     Or when an unguent's perfume delicate     Into the winds away departs, or when     From any body savour's gone, yet still     The thing itself seems minished naught to eyes,     Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight—     No marvel, because seeds many and minute     Produce the savours and the redolence     In the whole body of the things. And so,     Again, again, nature of mind and soul     'Tis thine to know created is of seeds     The tiniest ever, since at flying-forth     It beareth nothing of the weight away.     Yet fancy not its nature simple so.     For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat,     Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air;     And heat there's none, unless commixed with air:     For, since the nature of all heat is rare,     Athrough it many seeds of air must move.     Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those all     Suffice not for creating sense—since mind     Accepteth not that aught of these can cause     Sense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughts     A man revolves in mind. So unto these     Must added be a somewhat, and a fourth;     That somewhat's altogether void of name;     Than which existeth naught more mobile, naught     More an impalpable, of elements     More small and smooth and round. That first transmits     Sense-bearing motions through the frame, for that     Is roused the first, composed of little shapes;     Thence heat and viewless force of wind take up     The motions, and thence air, and thence all things     Are put in motion; the blood is strook, and then     The vitals all begin to feel, and last     To bones and marrow the sensation comes—     Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naught     Enter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through,     But all things be perturbed to that degree     That room for life will fail, and parts of soul     Will scatter through the body's every pore.     Yet as a rule, almost upon the skin     These motion aIl are stopped, and this is why     We have the power to retain our life.     Now in my eagerness to tell thee how     They are commixed, through what unions fit     They function so, my country's pauper-speech     Constrains me sadly. As I can, however,     I'll touch some points and pass. In such a wise     Course these primordials 'mongst one another     With inter-motions that no one can be     From other sundered, nor its agency     Perform, if once divided by a space;     Like many powers in one body they work.     As in the flesh of any creature still     Is odour and savour and a certain warmth,     And yet from all of these one bulk of body     Is made complete, so, viewless force of wind     And warmth and air, commingled, do create     One nature, by that mobile energy     Assisted which from out itself to them     Imparts initial motion, whereby first     Sense-bearing motion along the vitals springs.     For lurks this essence far and deep and under,     Nor in our body is aught more shut from view,     And 'tis the very soul of all the soul.     And as within our members and whole frame     The energy of mind and power of soul     Is mixed and latent, since create it is     Of bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth,     This essence void of name, composed of small,     And seems the very soul of all the soul,     And holds dominion o'er the body all.     And by like reason wind and air and heat     Must function so, commingled through the frame,     And now the one subside and now another     In interchange of dominance, that thus     From all of them one nature be produced,     Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart,     Make sense to perish, by disseverment.     There is indeed in mind that heat it gets     When seething in rage, and flashes from the eyes     More swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind,     Much, and so cold, companion of all dread,     Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame;     There is no less that state of air composed,     Making the tranquil breast, the serene face.     But more of hot have they whose restive hearts,     Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage—     Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions,     Who often with roaring burst the breast o'erwrought,     Unable to hold the surging wrath within;     But the cold mind of stags has more of wind,     And speedier through their inwards rouses up     The icy currents which make their members quake.     But more the oxen live by tranquil air,     Nor e'er doth smoky torch of wrath applied,     O'erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk,     Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark,     Pierced through by icy javelins of fear;     But have their place half-way between the two—     Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men:     Though training make them equally refined,     It leaves those pristine vestiges behind     Of each mind's nature. Nor may we suppose     Evil can e'er be rooted up so far     That one man's not more given to fits of wrath,     Another's not more quickly touched by fear,     A third not more long-suffering than he should.     And needs must differ in many things besides     The varied natures and resulting habits     Of humankind—of which not now can I     Expound the hidden causes, nor find names     Enough for all the divers shapes of those     Primordials whence this variation springs.     But this meseems I'm able to declare:     Those vestiges of natures left behind     Which reason cannot quite expel from us     Are still so slight that naught prevents a man     From living a life even worthy of the gods.     So then this soul is kept by all the body,     Itself the body's guard, and source of weal:     For they with common roots cleave each to each,     Nor can be torn asunder without death.     Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincense     To tear their fragrance forth, without its nature     Perishing likewise: so, not easy 'tis     From all the body nature of mind and soul     To draw away, without the whole dissolved.     With seeds so intertwined even from birth,     They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life;     No energy of body or mind, apart,     Each of itself without the other's power,     Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindled     Along the vitals, to flame is blown by both     With mutual motions. Besides the body alone     Is nor begot nor grows, nor after death     Seen to endure. For not as water at times     Gives off the alien heat, nor is thereby     Itself destroyed, but unimpaired remains—     Not thus, I say, can the deserted frame     Bear the dissevering of its joined soul,     But, rent and ruined, moulders all away.     Thus the joint contact of the body and soul     Learns from their earliest age the vital motions,     Even when still buried in the mother's womb;     So no dissevering can hap to them,     Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst see     That, as conjoined is their source of weal,     Conjoined also must their nature be.     If one, moreover, denies that body feel,     And holds that soul, through all the body mixed,     Takes on this motion which we title "sense,"     He battles in vain indubitable facts:     For who'll explain what body's feeling is,     Except by what the public fact itself     Has given and taught us?"But when soul is parted,     Body's without all sense." True!—loses what     Was even in its life-time not its own;     And much beside it loses, when soul's driven     Forth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyes     Themselves can see no thing, but through the same     The mind looks forth, as out of opened doors,     Is—a hard saying; since the feel in eyes     Says the reverse. For this itself draws on     And forces into the pupils of our eyes     Our consciousness. And note the case when often     We lack the power to see refulgent things,     Because our eyes are hampered by their light—     With a mere doorway this would happen not;     For, since it is our very selves that see,     No open portals undertake the toil.     Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors,     Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mind     Ought then still better to behold a thing—     When even the door-posts have been cleared away.     Herein in these affairs nowise take up     What honoured sage, Democritus, lays down—     That proposition, that primordials     Of body and mind, each super-posed on each,     Vary alternately and interweave     The fabric of our members. For not only     Are the soul-elements smaller far than those     Which this our body and inward parts compose,     But also are they in their number less,     And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thus     This canst thou guarantee: soul's primal germs     Maintain between them intervals as large     At least as are the smallest bodies, which,     When thrown against us, in our body rouse     Sense-bearing motions. Hence it comes that we     Sometimes don't feel alighting on our frames     The clinging dust, or chalk that settles soft;     Nor mists of night, nor spider's gossamer     We feel against us, when, upon our road,     Its net entangles us, nor on our head     The dropping of its withered garmentings;     Nor bird-feathers, nor vegetable down,     Flying about, so light they barely fall;     Nor feel the steps of every crawling thing,     Nor each of all those footprints on our skin     Of midges and the like. To that degree     Must many primal germs be stirred in us     Ere once the seeds of soul that through our frame     Are intermingled 'gin to feel that those     Primordials of the body have been strook,     And ere, in pounding with such gaps between,     They clash, combine and leap apart in turn.     But mind is more the keeper of the gates,     Hath more dominion over life than soul.     For without intellect and mind there's not     One part of soul can rest within our frame     Least part of time; companioning, it goes     With mind into the winds away, and leaves     The icy members in the cold of death.     But he whose mind and intellect abide     Himself abides in life. However much     The trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off,     The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs,     Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air.     Even when deprived of all but all the soul,     Yet will it linger on and cleave to life,—     Just as the power of vision still is strong,     If but the pupil shall abide unharmed,     Even when the eye around it's sorely rent—     Provided only thou destroyest not     Wholly the ball, but, cutting round the pupil,     Leavest that pupil by itself behind—     For more would ruin sight. But if that centre,     That tiny part of eye, be eaten through,     Forthwith the vision fails and darkness comes,     Though in all else the unblemished ball be clear.     'Tis by like compact that the soul and mind     Are each to other bound forevermore.