by Ronald Stuart Thomas

　　Iago Prytherch his name, though, be allowed,

　　Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

　　Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

　　Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

　　From the yellow bones with a hallf-witted grin

　　Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

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

　　So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

　　Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

　　Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

　　And then at night see him fixed¹ in his chair

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

　　There is something frightening in the vacancy² of his mind.

　　His clothes, sour with years of sweat

　　And animal contact, shock the refined,

　　But affected³, sense with their stark⁴ naturalness.

　　Yet this is your proto, who season by season

　　Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

　　Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress⁵

　　Not to be stormed even in death's confusion.

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

　　Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

　　一个农民

　　伊阿戈-普里特奇是他的名字，请原谅

　　他只是光秃秃的威尔士山间的普通人，

　　在白云的缝隙当中关进了几只羊。

　　剪短一颗颗饲牛的甜菜，削绿皮，

　　切黄梗，心满意足地咧着嘴儿

　　傻笑；或者，猛劲儿犁翻粗糙的大地，

　　造出凝滞的泥土的海洋，在风中闪耀——

　　他这样度着日子，流着口水的欢笑

　　比那或许一礼拜一次使憔悴的天公

　　笑逐颜开的太阳还要难见到。

　　夜晚，他在椅子上坐定，纹丝不动。

　　只有向炉火中吐痰时才歪一下身子。

　　他那空空的脑袋有点儿叫人害怕。

　　他的衣衫，由于终年累月地流汗

　　和接触牲畜而发酸；这裸露的自然状态

　　使文雅（而矫作）的人们深感惊骇。

　　但这是你的原型，一个季节又一个季节，

　　他抵御着暴雨的围攻和狂风的侵袭，

　　保护着他的家族，那坚不可摧的堡垒，

　　即使在死亡的困惑中也不会受到冲击。

　　记住他吧，因为他也是战争的胜利者，

　　犹如好奇的群星下一颗不朽的大树。