埃古 普瑞色曲，原谅我叫你的名．

你狭小的土地离世界的目光

如此遥远，你的刀刃在一块云的

边上磨得锋利，没人会告诉你

我怎样取笑你，或怜悯你

久久的自语，在十一月

太阳灯模糊的光线下

蜷缩于缓慢而耐心的手术．

取笑你？那是他们无礼的

指责，因为我用你的琐屑

提取主题，将你思想的无蔽

展示给他们；科学与艺术，

这精神的设施，没有可能

安置自身，因为对自然的

伟大抽象，扫空了脑壳．

取笑？怜悯？没有语词能描述

我真实的情感．我经过,看到你

在那里劳作，你暗黑的轮廓

以它憔悴的疑问，破坏

方形田亩单纯的几何图式．

我的诗成于它长长的阴影

Iago Prytherch, forgive my naming you.

You are so far in your small fields

From the world’s eye, sharpening your blade

On a cloud’s edge, no one will tell you

How I made fun of you, or pitied either

Your long soliloquies, crouched at your slow

And patient surgery under the faint

November rays of the sun’s lamp.

Made fun of you? That was their graceless

Accusation, because I took

Your rags for theme, because I showed them

Your thought’s bareness; science and art,

The mind’s furniture, having no chance

To install themselves, because of the great

Draught of nature sweeping the skull.

Fun? Pity? No word can describe

My true feelings. I passed and saw you

Labouring there, your dark figure

Marring the simple geometry

Of the square fields with its gaunt question.

My poems were made in its long shadow

Falling coldly across the page.