I ago 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 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 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.