I ago Prytherch his name, though, be allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hill
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangel chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind-
且说他名叫埃古·普莱瑟奇，尽管他
只不过光秃秃的威尔士丘陵中的一个一般人，
他在云雾弥漫的山谷里圈养了几只绵羊。
割掉甜菜叶，削去青皮，
露出黄色的甜菜头，他就傻乎乎地咧开嘴笑，
非常满足，或者把一块荒地
开凿成很多硬邦邦的土块，散落在风中发亮——
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 fixed in his chair
Motionless except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothe sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
他就如此过着日子，他的放声大笑
极少见，还不如太阳穿透当地阴沉天空的次数，
一星期太阳可能还能露出一次笑脸。
到了夜晚，你可以看见他坐在我们的椅子上
一动不动，除非要起身朝炉火吐口痰。
他脑子空白，这一点有的让人恐惧。
他的衣服，散发着陈年的汗臭
和牲口的气味，以赤裸裸的自然面貌，
吓坏了那些自命优雅而虚伪的人。
Yet this is your prototype, who season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind’s attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
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.
然而这就是你的原型，一季复一季
抵抗雨的围攻，风的销蚀，
他守卫着他的畜群，一个坚不可摧的堡垒，
即使在受死亡威胁的慌乱中也不会被突袭。
那样记住他吧，由于他也是战斗中的一个胜利者，
如好奇的群星下的一棵树那样不朽。
