The world rolls round forever like a mill; it grinds out death

“The world rolls round forever like a mill; it grinds out death and life and good and ill; it has no purpose, heart or mind or will.”
Thus wrote James Thomson, the poet of somber truth, whose words echo like the tolling of a distant bell beneath the vault of eternity. In this stark and haunting verse, he speaks not with despair, but with clarity—for he has looked upon the face of existence without illusion. The world, he tells us, turns endlessly, indifferent to the cries of joy or pain that rise from its surface. Like a great millstone, it grinds all things together—birth and death, virtue and vice, creation and destruction—without pause and without reason. In this image lies a terrible beauty: the revelation that life moves forward, not because of meaning, but because of motion itself.

The origin of this thought can be found in the dark reflections of Thomson’s poem The City of Dreadful Night (1874), written in the depths of melancholy and philosophical despair. He lived in an age of scientific awakening, when the old faith in divine order began to crumble before the cold light of reason. To many, this brought liberation—but to Thomson, it brought sorrow. He saw a universe no longer governed by a benevolent hand, but by mechanism—a cosmic engine that turns without pity, where stars burn and die as carelessly as the lives of men. His words are not blasphemy, but lament—a poet’s attempt to find dignity in the knowledge that the universe is vast, and we are small.

Yet even in his darkness, there is wisdom. To say that the world has “no purpose, heart, or mind” is not to curse it—it is to see it as it is, and to remind us that meaning must come not from the world, but from within ourselves. The mill grinds, yes—but we may choose what grain we bring to it. Whether we are crushed by its turning or purified by its pressure depends on the spirit we bring to life’s relentless motion. The indifferent cosmos becomes the test and proving ground of the human soul.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor of Rome. Surrounded by war, plague, and betrayal, he too saw that fate was cold and impartial. “The universe,” he wrote, “is change; our life is what our thoughts make it.” He did not curse the mill of the world; he worked within it, shaping virtue from necessity. Like Thomson, he recognized the indifference of nature—but unlike those who fall into despair, he found peace in acceptance. For when one stops demanding that life be just or merciful, one becomes free to live wisely, courageously, and compassionately, even amid chaos.

Thomson’s mill, then, is the eternal wheel of cause and effect, of creation and decay. It knows no mercy and no malice—it simply is. To resent its motion is to fight the tide of the sea; to accept it is to learn to sail upon it. The wise understand that death gives meaning to life, that sorrow sharpens joy, that good and ill are inseparable twins. The world does not pause for our griefs, but it also does not deny our joys. It moves on, endlessly turning, offering us the chance to find our place in its rhythm.

Yet this realization should not lead us to cold detachment. On the contrary, when we see how fragile and brief our time is beneath the indifferent sky, love becomes sacred, and kindness becomes rebellion. For in a world without built-in meaning, every act of compassion, every spark of creation, every word of truth becomes a deliberate affirmation of the human spirit. Thomson’s world may have no heart—but we do. And it is our heart that brings warmth to the turning wheel of existence.

So, O seeker of wisdom, take this lesson to heart: the world owes you nothing, but you owe it everything you are capable of giving. Do not wait for the universe to grant purpose—create it. Do not curse the wheel that turns—use its motion to shape your destiny. For though the world may roll on without mind or will, the soul that understands its indifference can rise above it. Let your love, your courage, and your art be the sparks that light the machinery of existence. And when the mill has ground your days to dust, let it be said that you left behind not despair, but dignity—the mark of one who faced an unfeeling world, and still chose to feel.