雅谷·普莱塔奇，就叫他这个名字吧，

Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,

只是个威尔士荒山中的普通人，

Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

在白云深处养了几只羊。

Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

有时削削甜菜，绿皮剥去，

Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

黄筋现出，就心满意足

From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin

咧嘴痴笑；或把荒地翻成

Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

一片凝固的海在风里闪烁——

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

日子就这么过着，

So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

鲜有的开怀大笑不多于

Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

太阳每周一次碾碎阴沉的天空。

Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

夜晚枯坐在椅上，

And then at night see him fixed in his chair

偶尔附身朝火堆啐口痰。

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

他心灵的空洞有种东西令人骇然。

There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.

他的衣服，散发多年的汗臭

His clothes, sour with years of sweat

与牲口的骚味，这赤裸的原始

And animal contact, shock the refined,

震惊矫揉造作的雅士。

But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.

然而这就是你的原型，他，一季又一季，

Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season

与雨的围攻抗衡，与风的肆虐对峙，

Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

保卫他的人种——一座坚强的堡垒

Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress

即便在死亡的混乱中也牢不可破。

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

记住他吧，因为他也是斗争的胜利者，

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

好奇的星空下，不朽如一棵树。

Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.