Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,

他名叫泼列色启，不过是一个

Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

威尔士荒山中的普通人，

Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

在云山深处养几只羊；

Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

碰到剥甜菜，他把它的绿皮

From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin

从黄色的菜筋削掉，这时他才

Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

露出得意的痴笑；或者使劲翻土，

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

把荒地变成一片土块，在风里闪光──

So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

日子就这样过去。他很少张口大笑，

Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

那次数比太阳一星期里偶然一次

Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

穿过上天的铁青脸还少。

And then at night see him fixed in his chair

晚上他呆坐在他的椅子上

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

一动不动，只偶尔倾身向火里吐口痰。

There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.

他的心是一块空白，空得叫人害怕。

His clothes, sour with years of sweat

他的衣服经过多年流汗

And animal contact, shock the refined,

和接触牲口，散发着味道，这原始状态

But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.

冒犯了那些装腔作势的雅士。

Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season

但他却是你们的原型。一季又一季

Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

他顶住风的侵蚀，雨的围攻，

Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress

把人种保留下来，一座坚固的堡垒，

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

即使在死亡的混乱中也难以攻破。

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

记住他吧，因为他也是战争中的得胜者，

Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

星星好奇地看他，他长寿如大树。