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.
中文翻译：
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.
中文翻译：
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