他名叫泼列色启，不过是一个

Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,

威尔士荒山中的普通人，

Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,

在云山深处养几只羊；

Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.

碰到剥甜菜，他把它的绿皮

Docking mangels, chipping the green skin

从黄色的菜筋削掉，这时他才

From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin

露出得意的痴笑；或者使劲翻土，

Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth

把荒地变成一片土块，在风里闪光──

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

日子就这样过去。他很少张口大笑，

So are his days spent, his spittled mirth

那次数比太阳一星期里偶然一次

Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks

穿过上天的铁青脸还少。

Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.

晚上他呆坐在他的椅子上

And then at night see him fixed in his chair

一动不动，只偶尔倾身向火里吐口痰。

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

他的心是一块空白，空得叫人害怕。

There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.

他的衣服经过多年流汗

His clothes, sour with years of sweat

和接触牲口，散发着味道，这原始状态

And animal contact, shock the refined,

冒犯了那些装腔作势的雅士。

But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.

但他却是你们的原型。一季又一季

Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season

他顶住风的侵蚀，雨的围攻，

Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,

把人种保留下来，一座坚固的堡垒，

Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress

即使在死亡的混乱中也难以攻破。

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

记住他吧，因为他也是战争中的得胜者，

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

星星好奇地看他，他长寿如大树。

Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.