The linguistic style and spirit of the poem are notable. The problem of Lucretius was to render the bald and abstract Greek prose of Epicurus into Latin hexameters at a time when Latin had no philosophical vocabulary. He succeeded by applying common words to a technical use. Thus, he used concilium (“assembly of people”) for a “system of atoms” and primordia (“first weavings”) for the “atoms” that make up the texture of things. When necessary, he invented words. In poetic diction and style he was in debt to the older Latin poets, especially to Quintus Ennius, the father of Roman poetry. He freely used alliteration and assonance, solemn and often metrically convenient archaic forms, and old constructions. He formed expressive compound adjectives of a sort rejected by Augustan taste—e.g., “the light-sleeping hearts of dogs,” “forest-breaking winds.” He imitated or echoed Homer; the dramatists Aeschylus and Euripides; Callimachus, a poet and critic; the historian Thucydides; and the physician Hippocrates. His hexameters stand halfway between those of Ennius, who introduced the metre into Latin, and Virgil, who perfected it. There is also some incoherence of rhythm, as well as harsh elisions and examples of unusual prosody.

The influence of Lucretius on Virgil was pervasive, especially in Virgil’s Georgics; and it is in clear allusion to Lucretius that Virgil wrote, “Happy is the man who can read the causes of things” (Georgics II, 490).

Lucretius spoke in austere compassion for the ignorant, unhappy human race. His moral fervour expressed itself in gratitude to Epicurus and in hatred of the seers who inculcated religious fears by threats of eternal punishment after death, of the Etruscan soothsayers with their lore of thunder and lightning, of the false philosophers—Stoics with their belief in divine providence or Platonists and Pythagoreans who taught the transmigration of immortal souls. The first appearance of religio (“religion” or “piety”) in the poem is as a monster that thrusts its fearful head from the regions of the sky. Epicurus, not intimidated by these spectres, had ranged beyond the “flaming ramparts of the world” through the infinite universe, broken into the citadel of nature, and brought back in triumph the knowledge of what can and what cannot be, of that “deep-set boundary stone” that divides the separate properties of things, the real from the not real. And “so religion is crushed beneath our feet and his [Epicurus’s] victory lifts us to the skies.”