Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,

可以断定他的名字叫埃古-普瑞色曲，

Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

光秃的威尔士山区一个寻常的男人。

Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

他把几只羊关入云隙的圈栏里。

Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

堆放甜菜，削去黄骨质上的绿皮，

From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin

露出愚笨而满足的口齿，或将荒土

Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

翻入在风中闪亮的不动的云海--

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

他就这样度日，喷着唾沫星的欢笑

So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

比也许一周一次绽开憔悴的

Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

天空面颊的太阳更稀罕。

Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

而后在晚上，他固定在椅子里，

And then at night see him fixed in his chair

往火里吐口水时才倾身动一动。

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

他空白的脑中有某种可怕的东西。

There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.

他的衣服，多少年的汗酸，

His clothes, sour with years of sweat

牲畜接触，冒犯优雅，

And animal contact, shock the refined,

但被感染，带着荒凉自然的感觉。

But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.

但这就是你的原型，一季又一季

Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season

抗拒雨的围困风的磨损，

Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

保存血种，一个坚固的保垒

Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress

未被死亡的混沌毁掉。

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

那么，记住他，因为他也是战争的胜利者，

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

在好奇的星星下像一棵树延续着。

Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.