Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,

雅谷·普莱塔奇，就叫他这个名字吧，

Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

只是个威尔士荒山中的普通人，

Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

在白云深处养了几只羊。

Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

有时削削甜菜，绿皮剥去，

From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin

黄筋现出，就心满意足

Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

咧嘴痴笑；或把荒地翻成

To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—

一片凝固的海在风里闪烁——

So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

日子就这么过着，

Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

鲜有的开怀大笑不多于

Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

太阳每周一次碾碎阴沉的天空。

And then at night see him fixed in his chair

夜晚枯坐在椅上，

Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.

偶尔附身朝火堆啐口痰。

There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.

他心灵的空洞有种东西令人骇然。

His clothes, sour with years of sweat

他的衣服，散发多年的汗臭

And animal contact, shock the refined,

与牲口的骚味，这赤裸的原始

But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.

震惊矫揉造作的雅士。

Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season

然而这就是你的原型，他，一季又一季，

Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

与雨的围攻抗衡，与风的肆虐对峙，

Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress

保卫他的人种——一座坚强的堡垒

Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.

即便在死亡的混乱中也牢不可破。

Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,

记住他吧，因为他也是斗争的胜利者，

Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

好奇的星空下，不朽如一棵树。