On the Nature of Things

BOOK IV

PROEM

     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     Song so pellucid, touching all throughout     Even with the Muses' charm—which, as 'twould seem,     Is not without a reasonable ground:     For 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 dost learn the nature of all things     And understandest their utility.

EXISTENCE AND CHARACTER OF THE IMAGES

     But 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,     And since I've taught what the mind's nature is,     And of what things 'tis with the body knit     And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn     That mind returns to its primordials,     Now will I undertake an argument—     One for these matters of supreme concern—     That there exist those somewhats which we call     The images of things: these, like to films     Scaled off the utmost outside of the things,     Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere,     And the same terrify our intellects,     Coming upon us waking or in sleep,     When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes     And images of people lorn of light,     Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay     In slumber—that haply nevermore may we     Suppose that souls get loose from Acheron,     Or shades go floating in among the living,     Or aught of us is left behind at death,     When body and mind, destroyed together, each     Back to its own primordials goes away.     And thus I say that effigies of things,     And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent,     From off the utmost outside of the things,     Which are like films or may be named a rind,     Because the image bears like look and form     With whatso body has shed it fluttering forth—     A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits,     Well learn from this: mainly, because we see     Even 'mongst visible objects many be     That send forth bodies, loosely some diffused—     Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires—     And some more interwoven and condensed—     As when the locusts in the summertime     Put off their glossy tunics, or when calves     At birth drop membranes from their body's surface,     Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffs     Its vestments 'mongst the thorns—for oft we see     The breres augmented with their flying spoils:     Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain too     That tenuous images from things are sent,     From off the utmost outside of the things.     For why those kinds should drop and part from things,     Rather than others tenuous and thin,     No power has man to open mouth to tell;     Especially, since on outsides of things     Are bodies many and minute which could,     In the same order which they had before,     And with the figure of their form preserved,     Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too,     Being less subject to impediments,     As few in number and placed along the front.     For truly many things we see discharge     Their stuff at large, not only from their cores     Deep-set within, as we have said above,     But from their surfaces at times no less—     Their very colours too. And commonly     The awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue,     Stretched overhead in mighty theatres,     Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering,     Have such an action quite; for there they dye     And make to undulate with their every hue     The circled throng below, and all the stage,     And rich attire in the patrician seats.     And ever the more the theatre's dark walls     Around them shut, the more all things within     Laugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints,     The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, since     The canvas hangings thus discharge their dye     From off their surface, things in general must     Likewise their tenuous effigies discharge,     Because in either case they are off-thrown     From off the surface. So there are indeed     Such certain prints and vestiges of forms     Which flit around, of subtlest texture made,     Invisible, when separate, each and one.     Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and such     Streams out of things diffusedly, because,     Whilst coming from the deeps of body forth     And rising out, along their bending path     They're torn asunder, nor have gateways straight     Wherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad.     But contrariwise, when such a tenuous film     Of outside colour is thrown off, there's naught     Can rend it, since 'tis placed along the front     Ready to hand. Lastly those images     Which to our eyes in mirrors do appear,     In water, or in any shining surface,     Must be, since furnished with like look of things,     Fashioned from images of things sent out.     There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms,     Like unto them, which no one can divine     When taken singly, which do yet give back,     When by continued and recurrent discharge     Expelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane.     Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be kept     So well conserved that thus be given back     Figures so like each object.                             Now then, learn     How tenuous is the nature of an image.     And in the first place, since primordials be     So far beneath our senses, and much less     E'en than those objects which begin to grow     Too small for eyes to note, learn now in few     How nice are the beginnings of all things—     That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof:     First, living creatures are sometimes so small     That even their third part can nowise be seen;     Judge, then, the size of any inward organ—     What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs,     The skeleton?—How tiny thus they are!     And what besides of those first particles     Whence soul and mind must fashioned be?—Seest not     How nice and how minute? Besides, whatever     Exhales from out its body a sharp smell—     The nauseous absinth, or the panacea,     Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury—     If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twain     Perchance [thou touch] a one of them     Then why not rather know that images     Flit hither and thither, many, in many modes,     Bodiless and invisible?                                      But lest     Haply thou holdest that those images     Which come from objects are the sole that flit,     Others indeed there be of own accord     Begot, self-formed in earth's aery skies,     Which, moulded to innumerable shapes,     Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are,     Cease not to change appearance and to turn     Into new outlines of all sorts of forms;     As we behold the clouds grow thick on high     And smirch the serene vision of the world,     Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seen     The giants' faces flying far along     And trailing a spread of shadow; and at times     The mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocks     Going before and crossing on the sun,     Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amain     And leading in the other thunderheads.     Now [hear] how easy and how swift they be     Engendered, and perpetually flow off     From things and gliding pass away....     For ever every outside streams away     From off all objects, since discharge they may;     And when this outside reaches other things,     As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where     It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood,     There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back     An image. But when gleaming objects dense,     As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it,     Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't     Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent—its safety,     By virtue of that smoothness, being sure.     'Tis therefore that from them the images     Stream back to us; and howso suddenly     Thou place, at any instant, anything     Before a mirror, there an image shows;     Proving that ever from a body's surface     Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things.     Thus many images in little time     Are gendered; so their origin is named     Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun     Must send below, in little time, to earth     So many beams to keep all things so full     Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same,     From things there must be borne, in many modes,     To every quarter round, upon the moment,     The many images of things; because     Unto whatever face of things we turn     The mirror, things of form and hue the same     Respond. Besides, though but a moment since     Serenest was the weather of the sky,     So fiercely sudden is it foully thick     That ye might think that round about all murk     Had parted forth from Acheron and filled     The mighty vaults of sky—so grievously,     As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night,     Do faces of black horror hang on high—     Of which how small a part an image is     There's none to tell or reckon out in words.     Now come; with what swift motion they are borne,     These images, and what the speed assigned     To them across the breezes swimming on—     So that o'er lengths of space a little hour     Alone is wasted, toward whatever region     Each with its divers impulse tends—I'll tell     In verses sweeter than they many are;     Even as the swan's slight note is better far     Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes     Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first,     One oft may see that objects which are light     And made of tiny bodies are the swift;     In which class is the sun's light and his heat,     Since made from small primordial elements     Which, as it were, are forward knocked along     And through the interspaces of the air     To pass delay not, urged by blows behind;     For light by light is instantly supplied     And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven.     Thus likewise must the images have power     Through unimaginable space to speed     Within a point of time,—first, since a cause     Exceeding small there is, which at their back     Far forward drives them and propels, where, too,     They're carried with such winged lightness on;     And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off,     With texture of such rareness that they can     Through objects whatsoever penetrate     And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air.     Besides, if those fine particles of things     Which from so deep within are sent abroad,     As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide     And spread themselves through all the space of heaven     Upon one instant of the day, and fly     O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then     Of those which on the outside stand prepared,     When they're hurled off with not a thing to check     Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed     How swifter and how farther must they go     And speed through manifold the length of space     In time the same that from the sun the rays     O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be     Example chief and true with what swift speed     The images of things are borne about:     That soon as ever under open skies     Is spread the shining water, all at once,     If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth,     Serene and radiant in the water there,     The constellations of the universe—     Now seest thou not in what a point of time     An image from the shores of ether falls     Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again,     And yet again, 'tis needful to confess     With wondrous…

THE SENSES AND MENTAL PICTURES

     Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.     From certain things flow odours evermore,     As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray     From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls     Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit     The varied voices, sounds athrough the air.     Then too there comes into the mouth at times     The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea     We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch     The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.     To such degree from all things is each thing     Borne streamingly along, and sent about     To every region round; and nature grants     Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow,     Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,     And all the time are suffered to descry     And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.     Besides, since shape examined by our hands     Within the dark is known to be the same     As that by eyes perceived within the light     And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be     By one like cause aroused. So, if we test     A square and get its stimulus on us     Within the dark, within the light what square     Can fall upon our sight, except a square     That images the things? Wherefore it seems     The source of seeing is in images,     Nor without these can anything be viewed.     Now these same films I name are borne about     And tossed and scattered into regions all.     But since we do perceive alone through eyes,     It follows hence that whitherso we turn     Our sight, all things do strike against it there     With form and hue. And just how far from us     Each thing may be away, the image yields     To us the power to see and chance to tell:     For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead     And drives along the air that's in the space     Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air     All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere,     Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise     Passes across. Therefore it comes we see     How far from us each thing may be away,     And the more air there be that's driven before,     And too the longer be the brushing breeze     Against our eyes, the farther off removed     Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work     With mightily swift order all goes on,     So that upon one instant we may see     What kind the object and how far away.     Nor over-marvellous must this be deemed     In these affairs that, though the films which strike     Upon the eyes cannot be singly seen,     The things themselves may be perceived. For thus     When the wind beats upon us stroke by stroke     And when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wont     To feel each private particle of wind     Or of that cold, but rather all at once;     And so we see how blows affect our body,     As if one thing were beating on the same     And giving us the feel of its own body     Outside of us. Again, whene'er we thump     With finger-tip upon a stone, we touch     But the rock's surface and the outer hue,     Nor feel that hue by contact—rather feel     The very hardness deep within the rock.     Now come, and why beyond a looking-glass     An image may be seen, perceive. For seen     It soothly is, removed far within.     'Tis the same sort as objects peered upon     Outside in their true shape, whene'er a door     Yields through itself an open peering-place,     And lets us see so many things outside     Beyond the house. Also that sight is made     By a twofold twin air: for first is seen     The air inside the door-posts; next the doors,     The twain to left and right; and afterwards     A light beyond comes brushing through our eyes,     Then other air, then objects peered upon     Outside in their true shape. And thus, when first     The image of the glass projects itself,     As to our gaze it comes, it shoves ahead     And drives along the air that's in the space     Betwixt it and our eyes, and brings to pass     That we perceive the air ere yet the glass.     But when we've also seen the glass itself,     Forthwith that image which from us is borne     Reaches the glass, and there thrown back again     Comes back unto our eyes, and driving rolls     Ahead of itself another air, that then     'Tis this we see before itself, and thus     It looks so far removed behind the glass.     Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder     In those which render from the mirror's plane     A vision back, since each thing comes to pass     By means of the two airs. Now, in the glass     The right part of our members is observed     Upon the left, because, when comes the image     Hitting against the level of the glass,     'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced off     Backwards in line direct and not oblique,—     Exactly as whoso his plaster-mask     Should dash, before 'twere dry, on post or beam,     And it should straightway keep, at clinging there,     Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw,     And so remould the features it gives back:     It comes that now the right eye is the left,     The left the right. An image too may be     From mirror into mirror handed on,     Until of idol-films even five or six     Have thus been gendered. For whatever things     Shall hide back yonder in the house, the same,     However far removed in twisting ways,     May still be all brought forth through bending paths     And by these several mirrors seen to be     Within the house, since nature so compels     All things to be borne backward and spring off     At equal angles from all other things.     To such degree the image gleams across     From mirror unto mirror; where 'twas left     It comes to be the right, and then again     Returns and changes round unto the left.     Again, those little sides of mirrors curved     Proportionate to the bulge of our own flank     Send back to us their idols with the right     Upon the right; and this is so because     Either the image is passed on along     From mirror unto mirror, and thereafter,     When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves;     Or else the image wheels itself around,     When once unto the mirror it has come,     Since the curved surface teaches it to turn     To usward. Further, thou might'st well believe     That these film-idols step along with us     And set their feet in unison with ours     And imitate our carriage, since from that     Part of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawn     Straightway no images can be returned.     Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the bright     And shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds,     If thou goest on to strain them unto him,     Because his strength is mighty, and the films     Heavily downward from on high are borne     Through the pure ether and the viewless winds,     And strike the eyes, disordering their joints.     So piecing lustre often burns the eyes,     Because it holdeth many seeds of fire     Which, working into eyes, engender pain.     Again, whatever jaundiced people view     Becomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodies     Flow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meet     The films of things, and many too are mixed     Within their eye, which by contagion paint     All things with sallowness. Again, we view     From dark recesses things that stand in light,     Because, when first has entered and possessed     The open eyes this nearer darkling air,     Swiftly the shining air and luminous     Followeth in, which purges then the eyes     And scatters asunder of that other air     The sable shadows, for in large degrees     This air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong.     And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with light     The pathways of the eyeballs, which before     Black air had blocked, there follow straightaway     Those films of things out-standing in the light,     Provoking vision—what we cannot do     From out the light with objects in the dark,     Because that denser darkling air behind     Followeth in, and fills each aperture     And thus blockades the pathways of the eyes     That there no images of any things     Can be thrown in and agitate the eyes.     And when from far away we do behold     The squared towers of a city, oft     Rounded they seem,—on this account because     Each distant angle is perceived obtuse,     Or rather it is not perceived at all;     And perishes its blow nor to our gaze     Arrives its stroke, since through such length of air     Are borne along the idols that the air     Makes blunt the idol of the angle's point     By numerous collidings. When thuswise     The angles of the tower each and all     Have quite escaped the sense, the stones appear     As rubbed and rounded on a turner's wheel—     Yet not like objects near and truly round,     But with a semblance to them, shadowily.     Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears     To move along and follow our own steps     And imitate our carriage—if thou thinkest     Air that is thus bereft of light can walk,     Following the gait and motion of mankind.     For what we use to name a shadow, sure     Is naught but air deprived of light. No marvel:     Because the earth from spot to spot is reft     Progressively of light of sun, whenever     In moving round we get within its way,     While any spot of earth by us abandoned     Is filled with light again, on this account     It comes to pass that what was body's shadow     Seems still the same to follow after us     In one straight course. Since, evermore pour in     New lights of rays, and perish then the old,     Just like the wool that's drawn into the flame.     Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of light     And easily refilled and from herself     Washeth the black shadows quite away.     And yet in this we don't at all concede     That eyes be cheated. For their task it is     To note in whatsoever place be light,     In what be shadow: whether or no the gleams     Be still the same, and whether the shadow which     Just now was here is that one passing thither,     Or whether the facts be what we said above,     'Tis after all the reasoning of mind     That must decide; nor can our eyeballs know     The nature of reality. And so     Attach thou not this fault of mind to eyes,     Nor lightly think our senses everywhere     Are tottering. The ship in which we sail     Is borne along, although it seems to stand;     The ship that bides in roadstead is supposed     There to be passing by. And hills and fields     Seem fleeing fast astern, past which we urge     The ship and fly under the bellying sails.     The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixed     To the ethereal caverns, though they all     Forever are in motion, rising out     And thence revisiting their far descents     When they have measured with their bodies bright     The span of heaven. And likewise sun and moon     Seem biding in a roadstead,—objects which,     As plain fact proves, are really borne along.     Between two mountains far away aloft     From midst the whirl of waters open lies     A gaping exit for the fleet, and yet     They seem conjoined in a single isle.     When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round,     The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel,     Until they now must almost think the roofs     Threaten to ruin down upon their heads.     And now, when nature begins to lift on high     The sun's red splendour and the tremulous fires,     And raise him o'er the mountain-tops, those mountains—     O'er which he seemeth then to thee to be,     His glowing self hard by atingeing them     With his own fire—are yet away from us     Scarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeed     Oft scarce five hundred courses of a dart;     Although between those mountains and the sun     Lie the huge plains of ocean spread beneath     The vasty shores of ether, and intervene     A thousand lands, possessed by many a folk     And generations of wild beasts. Again,     A pool of water of but a finger's depth,     Which lies between the stones along the pave,     Offers a vision downward into earth     As far, as from the earth o'erspread on high     The gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to view     Clouds down below and heavenly bodies plunged     Wondrously in heaven under earth.     Then too, when in the middle of the stream     Sticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gaze     Into the river's rapid waves, some force     Seems then to bear the body of the horse,     Though standing still, reversely from his course,     And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'er     We cast our eyes across, all objects seem     Thus to be onward borne and flow along     In the same way as we. A portico,     Albeit it stands well propped from end to end     On equal columns, parallel and big,     Contracts by stages in a narrow cone,     When from one end the long, long whole is seen,—     Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor,     And the whole right side with the left, it draws     Together to a cone's nigh-viewless point.     To sailors on the main the sun he seems     From out the waves to rise, and in the waves     To set and bury his light—because indeed     They gaze on naught but water and the sky.     Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea,     Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops,     To lean upon the water, quite agog;     For any portion of the oars that's raised     Above the briny spray is straight, and straight     The rudders from above. But other parts,     Those sunk, immersed below the water-line,     Seem broken all and bended and inclined     Sloping to upwards, and turned back to float     Almost atop the water. And when the winds     Carry the scattered drifts along the sky     In the night-time, then seem to glide along     The radiant constellations 'gainst the clouds     And there on high to take far other course     From that whereon in truth they're borne. And then,     If haply our hand be set beneath one eye     And press below thereon, then to our gaze     Each object which we gaze on seems to be,     By some sensation twain—then twain the lights     Of lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame,     And twain the furniture in all the house,     Two-fold the visages of fellow-men,     And twain their bodies. And again, when sleep     Has bound our members down in slumber soft     And all the body lies in deep repose,     Yet then we seem to self to be awake     And move our members; and in night's blind gloom     We think to mark the daylight and the sun;     And, shut within a room, yet still we seem     To change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills,     To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds,     Though still the austere silence of the night     Abides around us, and to speak replies,     Though voiceless. Other cases of the sort     Wondrously many do we see, which all     Seek, so to say, to injure faith in sense—     In vain, because the largest part of these     Deceives through mere opinions of the mind,     Which we do add ourselves, feigning to see     What by the senses are not seen at all.     For naught is harder than to separate     Plain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwith     Adds by itself.                     Again, if one suppose     That naught is known, he knows not whether this     Itself is able to be known, since he     Confesses naught to know. Therefore with him     I waive discussion—who has set his head     Even where his feet should be. But let me grant     That this he knows,—I question: whence he knows     What 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn,     And what created concept of the truth,     And what device has proved the dubious     To differ from the certain?—since in things     He's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt find     That from the senses first hath been create     Concept of truth, nor can the senses be     Rebutted. For criterion must be found     Worthy of greater trust, which shall defeat     Through own authority the false by true;     What, then, than these our senses must there be     Worthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprung     From some false sense, prevail to contradict     Those senses, sprung as reason wholly is     From out the senses?—For lest these be true,     All reason also then is falsified.     Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes,     Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall taste     Accuse this touch or shall the nose confute     Or eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is:     For unto each has been divided off     Its function quite apart, its power to each;     And thus we're still constrained to perceive     The soft, the cold, the hot apart, apart     All divers hues and whatso things there be     Conjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongue     Has its own power apart, and smells apart     And sounds apart are known. And thus it is     That no one sense can e'er convict another.     Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself,     Because it always must be deemed the same,     Worthy of equal trust. And therefore what     At any time unto these senses showed,     The same is true. And if the reason be     Unable to unravel us the cause     Why objects, which at hand were square, afar     Seemed rounded, yet it more availeth us,     Lacking the reason, to pretend a cause     For each configuration, than to let     From out our hands escape the obvious things     And injure primal faith in sense, and wreck     All those foundations upon which do rest     Our life and safety. For not only reason     Would topple down; but even our very life     Would straightaway collapse, unless we dared     To trust our senses and to keep away     From headlong heights and places to be shunned     Of a like peril, and to seek with speed     Their opposites! Again, as in a building,     If the first plumb-line be askew, and if     The square deceiving swerve from lines exact,     And if the level waver but the least     In any part, the whole construction then     Must turn out faulty—shelving and askew,     Leaning to back and front, incongruous,     That now some portions seem about to fall,     And falls the whole ere long—betrayed indeed     By first deceiving estimates: so too     Thy calculations in affairs of life     Must be askew and false, if sprung for thee     From senses false. So all that troop of words     Marshalled against the senses is quite vain.     And now remains to demonstrate with ease     How other senses each their things perceive.     Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard,     When, getting into ears, they strike the sense     With their own body. For confess we must     Even voice and sound to be corporeal,     Because they're able on the sense to strike.     Besides voice often scrapes against the throat,     And screams in going out do make more rough     The wind-pipe—naturally enough, methinks,     When, through the narrow exit rising up     In larger throng, these primal germs of voice     Have thus begun to issue forth. In sooth,     Also the door of the mouth is scraped against     [By air blown outward] from distended [cheeks].     And thus no doubt there is, that voice and words     Consist of elements corporeal,     With power to pain. Nor art thou unaware     Likewise how much of body's ta'en away,     How much from very thews and powers of men     May be withdrawn by steady talk, prolonged     Even from the rising splendour of the morn     To shadows of black evening,—above all     If 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts.     Therefore the voice must be corporeal,     Since the long talker loses from his frame     A part.           Moreover, roughness in the sound     Comes from the roughness in the primal germs,     As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create;     Nor have these elements a form the same     When the trump rumbles with a hollow roar,     As when barbaric Berecynthian pipe     Buzzes with raucous boomings, or when swans     By night from icy shores of Helicon     With wailing voices raise their liquid dirge.     Thus, when from deep within our frame we force     These voices, and at mouth expel them forth,     The mobile tongue, artificer of words,     Makes them articulate, and too the lips     By their formations share in shaping them.     Hence when the space is short from starting-point     To where that voice arrives, the very words     Must too be plainly heard, distinctly marked.     For then the voice conserves its own formation,     Conserves its shape. But if the space between     Be longer than is fit, the words must be     Through the much air confounded, and the voice     Disordered in its flight across the winds—     And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive,     Yet not determine what the words may mean;     To such degree confounded and encumbered     The voice approaches us. Again, one word,     Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all ears     Among the populace. And thus one voice     Scatters asunder into many voices,     Since it divides itself for separate ears,     Imprinting form of word and a clear tone.     But whatso part of voices fails to hit     The ears themselves perishes, borne beyond,     Idly diffused among the winds. A part,     Beating on solid porticoes, tossed back     Returns a sound; and sometimes mocks the ear     With a mere phantom of a word. When this     Thou well hast noted, thou canst render count     Unto thyself and others why it is     Along the lonely places that the rocks     Give back like shapes of words in order like,     When search we after comrades wandering     Among the shady mountains, and aloud     Call unto them, the scattered. I have seen     Spots that gave back even voices six or seven     For one thrown forth—for so the very hills,     Dashing them back against the hills, kept on     With their reverberations. And these spots     The neighbouring country-side doth feign to be     Haunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs;     And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noise     And antic revels yonder they declare     The voiceless silences are broken oft,     And tones of strings are made and wailings sweet     Which the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips,     Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-race     Begins to hear, when, shaking the garmentings     Of pine upon his half-beast head, god-Pan     With puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'er     The open reeds,—lest flute should cease to pour     The woodland music! Other prodigies     And wonders of this ilk they love to tell,     Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spots     And even by gods deserted. This is why     They boast of marvels in their story-tellings;     Or by some other reason are led on—     Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been,     To prattle fables into ears.                                 Again,     One need not wonder how it comes about     That through those places (through which eyes cannot     View objects manifest) sounds yet may pass     And assail the ears. For often we observe     People conversing, though the doors be closed;     No marvel either, since all voice unharmed     Can wind through bended apertures of things,     While idol-films decline to—for they're rent,     Unless along straight apertures they swim,     Like those in glass, through which all images     Do fly across. And yet this voice itself,     In passing through shut chambers of a house,     Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears,     And sound we seem to hear far more than words.     Moreover, a voice is into all directions     Divided up, since off from one another     New voices are engendered, when one voice     Hath once leapt forth, outstarting into many—     As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkle     Itself into its several fires. And so,     Voices do fill those places hid behind,     Which all are in a hubbub round about,     Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend,     As once sent forth, in straight directions all;     Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught,     Yet catch the voices from beyond the same.     Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel,     Present more problems for more work of thought.     Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth,     When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,—     As any one perchance begins to squeeze     With hand and dry a sponge with water soaked.     Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread about     Along the pores and intertwined paths     Of the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smooth     The bodies of the oozy flavour, then     Delightfully they touch, delightfully     They treat all spots, around the wet and trickling     Enclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise,     They sting and pain the sense with their assault,     According as with roughness they're supplied.     Next, only up to palate is the pleasure     Coming from flavour; for in truth when down     'Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is,     Whilst into all the frame it spreads around;     Nor aught it matters with what food is fed     The body, if only what thou take thou canst     Distribute well digested to the frame     And keep the stomach in a moist career.     Now, how it is we see some food for some,     Others for others....     I will unfold, or wherefore what to some     Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others     Can seem delectable to eat,—why here     So great the distance and the difference is     That what is food to one to some becomes     Fierce poison, as a certain snake there is     Which, touched by spittle of a man, will waste     And end itself by gnawing up its coil.     Again, fierce poison is the hellebore     To us, but puts the fat on goats and quails.     That thou mayst know by what devices this     Is brought about, in chief thou must recall     What we have said before, that seeds are kept     Commixed in things in divers modes. Again,     As all the breathing creatures which take food     Are outwardly unlike, and outer cut     And contour of their members bounds them round,     Each differing kind by kind, they thus consist     Of seeds of varying shape. And furthermore,     Since seeds do differ, divers too must be     The interstices and paths (which we do call     The apertures) in all the members, even     In mouth and palate too. Thus some must be     More small or yet more large, three-cornered some     And others squared, and many others round,     And certain of them many-angled too     In many modes. For, as the combination     And motion of their divers shapes demand,     The shapes of apertures must be diverse     And paths must vary according to their walls     That bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some,     Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom     'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needs     Have entered caressingly the palate's pores.     And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweet     Is sour within the mouth, beyond a doubt     The rough and barbed particles have got     Into the narrows of the apertures.     Now easy it is from these affairs to know     Whatever…     Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bile     Is stricken with fever, or in other wise     Feels the roused violence of some malady,     There the whole frame is now upset, and there     All the positions of the seeds are changed,—     So that the bodies which before were fit     To cause the savour, now are fit no more,     And now more apt are others which be able     To get within the pores and gender sour.     Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey—     What oft we've proved above to thee before.     Now come, and I will indicate what wise     Impact of odour on the nostrils touches.     And first, 'tis needful there be many things     From whence the streaming flow of varied odours     May roll along, and we're constrained to think     They stream and dart and sprinkle themselves about     Impartially. But for some breathing creatures     One odour is more apt, to others another—     Because of differing forms of seeds and pores.     Thus on and on along the zephyrs bees     Are led by odour of honey, vultures too     By carcasses. Again, the forward power     Of scent in dogs doth lead the hunter on     Whithersoever the splay-foot of wild beast     Hath hastened its career; and the white goose,     The saviour of the Roman citadel,     Forescents afar the odour of mankind.     Thus, diversly to divers ones is given     Peculiar smell that leadeth each along     To his own food or makes him start aback     From loathsome poison, and in this wise are     The generations of the wild preserved.     Yet is this pungence not alone in odours     Or in the class of flavours; but, likewise,     The look of things and hues agree not all     So well with senses unto all, but that     Some unto some will be, to gaze upon,     More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions,     They dare not face and gaze upon the cock     Who's wont with wings to flap away the night     From off the stage, and call the beaming morn     With clarion voice—and lions straightway thus     Bethink themselves of flight, because, ye see,     Within the body of the cocks there be     Some certain seeds, which, into lions' eyes     Injected, bore into the pupils deep     And yield such piercing pain they can't hold out     Against the cocks, however fierce they be—     Whilst yet these seeds can't hurt our gaze the least,     Either because they do not penetrate,     Or since they have free exit from the eyes     As soon as penetrating, so that thus     They cannot hurt our eyes in any part     By there remaining.                        To speak once more of odour;     Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travel     A longer way than others. None of them,     However, 's borne so far as sound or voice—     While I omit all mention of such things     As hit the eyesight and assail the vision.     For slowly on a wandering course it comes     And perishes sooner, by degrees absorbed     Easily into all the winds of air;—     And first, because from deep inside the thing     It is discharged with labour (for the fact     That every object, when 'tis shivered, ground,     Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the stronger     Is sign that odours flow and part away     From inner regions of the things). And next,     Thou mayest see that odour is create     Of larger primal germs than voice, because     It enters not through stony walls, wherethrough     Unfailingly the voice and sound are borne;     Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis not     So easy to trace out in whatso place     The smelling object is. For, dallying on     Along the winds, the particles cool off,     And then the scurrying messengers of things     Arrive our senses, when no longer hot.     So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent.     Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind,     And learn, in few, whence unto intellect     Do come what come. And first I tell thee this:     That many images of objects rove     In many modes to every region round—     So thin that easily the one with other,     When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air,     Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed,     Far thinner are they in their fabric than     Those images which take a hold on eyes     And smite the vision, since through body's pores     They penetrate, and inwardly stir up     The subtle nature of mind and smite the sense.     Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thus     The Cerberus-visages of dogs we see,     And images of people gone before—     Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago;     Because the images of every kind     Are everywhere about us borne—in part     Those which are gendered in the very air     Of own accord, in part those others which     From divers things do part away, and those     Which are compounded, made from out their shapes.     For soothly from no living Centaur is     That phantom gendered, since no breed of beast     Like him was ever; but, when images     Of horse and man by chance have come together,     They easily cohere, as aforesaid,     At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin.     In the same fashion others of this ilk     Created are. And when they're quickly borne     In their exceeding lightness, easily     (As earlier I showed) one subtle image,     Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind,     Itself so subtle and so strangely quick.     That these things come to pass as I record,     From this thou easily canst understand:     So far as one is unto other like,     Seeing with mind as well as with the eyes     Must come to pass in fashion not unlike.     Well, now, since I have shown that I perceive     Haply a lion through those idol-films     Such as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to know     Also the mind is in like manner moved,     And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see     (Except that it perceives more subtle films)     The lion and aught else through idol-films.     And when the sleep has overset our frame,     The mind's intelligence is now awake,     Still for no other reason, save that these—     The self-same films as when we are awake—     Assail our minds, to such degree indeed     That we do seem to see for sure the man     Whom, void of life, now death and earth have gained     Dominion over. And nature forces this     To come to pass because the body's senses     Are resting, thwarted through the members all,     Unable now to conquer false with true;     And memory lies prone and languishes     In slumber, nor protests that he, the man     Whom the mind feigns to see alive, long since     Hath been the gain of death and dissolution.     And further, 'tis no marvel idols move     And toss their arms and other members round     In rhythmic time—and often in men's sleeps     It haps an image this is seen to do;     In sooth, when perishes the former image,     And other is gendered of another pose,     That former seemeth to have changed its gestures.     Of course the change must be conceived as speedy;     So great the swiftness and so great the store     Of idol-things, and (in an instant brief     As mind can mark) so great, again, the store     Of separate idol-parts to bring supplies.     It happens also that there is supplied     Sometimes an image not of kind the same;     But what before was woman, now at hand     Is seen to stand there, altered into male;     Or other visage, other age succeeds;     But slumber and oblivion take care     That we shall feel no wonder at the thing.     And much in these affairs demands inquiry,     And much, illumination—if we crave     With plainness to exhibit facts. And first,     Why doth the mind of one to whom the whim     To think has come behold forthwith that thing?     Or do the idols watch upon our will,     And doth an image unto us occur,     Directly we desire—if heart prefer     The sea, the land, or after all the sky?     Assemblies of the citizens, parades,     Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she,     Nature, create and furnish at our word?—     Maugre the fact that in same place and spot     Another's mind is meditating things     All far unlike. And what, again, of this:     When we in sleep behold the idols step,     In measure, forward, moving supple limbs,     Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turn     With speedy motion, and with eyeing heads     Repeat the movement, as the foot keeps time?     Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art,     And wander to and fro well taught indeed,—     Thus to be able in the time of night     To make such games! Or will the truth be this:     Because in one least moment that we mark—     That is, the uttering of a single sound—     There lurk yet many moments, which the reason     Discovers to exist, therefore it comes     That, in a moment how so brief ye will,     The divers idols are hard by, and ready     Each in its place diverse? So great the swiftness,     So great, again, the store of idol-things,     And so, when perishes the former image,     And other is gendered of another pose,     The former seemeth to have changed its gestures.     And since they be so tenuous, mind can mark     Sharply alone the ones it strains to see;     And thus the rest do perish one and all,     Save those for which the mind prepares itself.     Further, it doth prepare itself indeed,     And hopes to see what follows after each—     Hence this result. For hast thou not observed     How eyes, essaying to perceive the fine,     Will strain in preparation, otherwise     Unable sharply to perceive at all?     Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain,     If thou attendest not, 'tis just the same     As if 'twere all the time removed and far.     What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest,     Save those to which 'thas given up itself?     So 'tis that we conjecture from small signs     Things wide and weighty, and involve ourselves     In snarls of self-deceit.