Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed, br Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills, br Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud. br Docking mangels, chipping the green skin br From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin br Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth br To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind— br So are his days spent, his spittled mirth br Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks br Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week. br And then at night see him fixed in his chair br Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire. br There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind. br His clothes, sour with years of sweat br And animal contact, shock the refined, br But affected, sense with their stark naturalness. br Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season br Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition, br Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress br Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion. br Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars, br Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.