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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=509890" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Peasant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=509890" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=509890" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Submitted by Andrew Mayers</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Ronald+Stuart+Thomas">Ronald Stuart Thomas</a></strong></div>