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.
且说他名叫埃古·普莱瑟奇，尽管他
只是光秃秃的威尔士丘陵中的一个普通人，
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，
很满足，或者把一块荒地
开凿成许多硬邦邦的土块，散落在风中发亮——
他就这样过着日子，他的放声大笑
很少见，还不如太阳穿透当地阴沉天空的次数，
一星期太阳或许还能露出一次笑脸。
到了夜晚，你可以看见他坐在自己的椅子上
一动不动，除非要起身朝炉火吐口痰。
他脑子空白，这一点有些令人恐惧。
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，
吓坏了那些自命高雅而虚伪的人。
然而这就是你的原型，一季复一季
抵抗雨的围攻，风的销蚀，
他保卫着他的畜群，一个坚不可摧的堡垒，
即便在受死亡威胁的慌乱中也不会被突袭。
那么记住他吧，因为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。
