一個(gè)農(nóng)民
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(攪拌) 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.
且說他名叫埃古·普萊瑟奇，盡管他
只是光禿禿的威爾士丘陵中的一個(gè)普通人，
他在云霧彌漫的山谷里圈養(yǎng)了幾只綿羊。
割掉甜菜葉，削去青皮，
露出黃色的甜菜頭，他就傻乎乎地咧開嘴笑，
很滿足，或者把一塊荒地
開鑿成許多硬邦邦的土塊，散落在風(fēng)中發(fā)亮——
他就這樣過著日子，他的放聲大笑
很少見，還不如太陽穿透當(dāng)?shù)仃幊撂炜盏拇螖?shù)，
一星期太陽或許還能露出一次笑臉。
到了夜晚，你可以看見他坐在自己的椅子上
一動(dòng)不動(dòng)，除非要起身朝爐火吐口痰。
他腦子空白，這一點(diǎn)有些令人恐懼。
他的衣服，散發(fā)著陳年的汗臭
和牲口的氣味，以赤裸裸的自然面貌，
嚇壞了那些自命高雅而虛偽的人。
然而這就是你的原型，一季復(fù)一季
抵抗雨的圍攻，風(fēng)的銷蝕，
他保衛(wèi)著他的畜群，一個(gè)堅(jiān)不可摧的堡壘，
即便在受死亡威脅的慌亂中也不會(huì)被突襲。
那么記住他吧，因?yàn)樗彩菓?zhàn)斗中的一個(gè)勝利者，
如好奇的群星下的一棵樹那樣不朽。
