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 fixed1 in his chair
Motionless except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy2（空缺） of his mind.
His clothe sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected3, sense with their stark4 naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who season by season
Against siege of rain and
