On the Nature of Things. Тит Лукреций КарЧитать онлайн книгу.

           That earth, without her seasons of fixed rains,

           Could bear no produce such as makes us glad,

           And whatsoever lives, if shut from food,

           Prolongs its kind and guards its life no more.

           Thus easier 'tis to hold that many things

           Have primal bodies in common (as we see

           The single letters common to many words)

           Than aught exists without its origins.

           Moreover, why should Nature not prepare

           Men of a bulk to ford the seas afoot,

           Or rend the mighty mountains with their hands,

           Or conquer Time with length of days, if not

           Because for all begotten things abides

           The changeless stuff, and what from that may spring

           Is fixed forevermore? Lastly we see

           How far the tilled surpass the fields untilled

           And to the labour of our hands return

           Their more abounding crops; there are indeed

           Within the earth primordial germs of things,

           Which, as the ploughshare turns the fruitful clods

           And kneads the mould, we quicken into birth.

           Else would ye mark, without all toil of ours,

           Spontaneous generations, fairer forms.

           Confess then, naught from nothing can become,

           Since all must have their seeds, wherefrom to grow,

           Wherefrom to reach the gentle fields of air.

           Hence too it comes that Nature all dissolves

           Into their primal bodies again, and naught

           Perishes ever to annihilation.

           For, were aught mortal in its every part,

           Before our eyes it might be snatched away

           Unto destruction; since no force were needed

           To sunder its members and undo its bands.

           Whereas, of truth, because all things exist,

           With seed imperishable, Nature allows

           Destruction nor collapse of aught, until

           Some outward force may shatter by a blow,

           Or inward craft, entering its hollow cells,

           Dissolve it down. And more than this, if Time,

           That wastes with eld the works along the world,

           Destroy entire, consuming matter all,

           Whence then may Venus back to light of life

           Restore the generations kind by kind?

           Or how, when thus restored, may daedal Earth

           Foster and plenish with her ancient food,

           Which, kind by kind, she offers unto each?

           Whence may the water-springs, beneath the sea,

           Or inland rivers, far and wide away,

           Keep the unfathomable ocean full?

           And out of what does Ether feed the stars?

           For lapsed years and infinite age must else

           Have eat all shapes of mortal stock away:

           But be it the Long Ago contained those germs,

           By which this sum of things recruited lives,

           Those same infallibly can never die,

           Nor nothing to nothing evermore return.

           And, too, the selfsame power might end alike

           All things, were they not still together held

           By matter eternal, shackled through its parts,

           Now more, now less. A touch might be enough

           To cause destruction. For the slightest force

           Would loose the weft of things wherein no part

           Were of imperishable stock. But now

           Because the fastenings of primordial parts

           Are put together diversely and stuff

           Is everlasting, things abide the same

           Unhurt and sure, until some power comes on

           Strong to destroy the warp and woof of each:

           Nothing returns to naught; but all return

           At their collapse to primal forms of stuff.

           Lo, the rains perish which Ether-father throws

           Down to the bosom of Earth-mother; but then

           Upsprings the shining grain, and boughs are green

           Amid the trees, and trees themselves wax big

           And lade themselves with fruits; and hence in turn

           The race of man and all the wild are fed;

           Hence joyful cities thrive with boys and girls;

           And leafy woodlands echo with new birds;

           Hence cattle, fat and drowsy, lay their bulk

           Along the joyous pastures whilst the drops

           Of white ooze trickle from distended bags;

           Hence the young scamper on their weakling joints

           Along the tender herbs, fresh hearts afrisk

           With warm new milk. Thus naught of what so seems

           Perishes utterly, since Nature ever

           Upbuilds one thing from other, suffering naught

           To come to birth but through some other's death.