English Story


 Iago 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(搅拌) 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 fixed in his chair
 Motionless except when he leans to gob in the fire.
 There is something frightening in the vacancy(空缺) of his mind.
 His clothe sour with years of sweat
 And animal contact, shock the refined,
 But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
 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.