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Epic poems measure themselves.  They have to, it's part of nature.  Like tree-rings, exactement.  This is squawk #2 from the prelude, the prologue, the opening gambit, the 1st pitch.

from Shakespeare's Head 

2

A snail inches through earth become clay –

twelve miles by twelve around in a circle. 

And Shakespeare's Head (anonymous oracle)

still stands (on the East Side) to this day.

Blind newsboy tin of happiness!

Measured phrases squaring off those domes 

boxed-in and feuding until kingdom come.

I'll hide my own head in your field grass.

Time waves the robins across the prairie.

Settle down, Eurydice, Persephone –

he won't be long.  Trumped-up harmony 

will bear him (bleary-eyed) from the library.

Garden behind Shakespeare's Head