Kristijonas Donelaitis was a Prussian Lithuanian poet and Lutheran pastor. He lived and worked in Lithuania Minor, a territory in the Kingdom of Prussia, that had a sizable Lithuanian-speaking minority. He wrote the first classic Lithuanian language poem, The Seasons (Lithuanian: Metai). Kristijonas Donelaitis’ Metai in der Tradi- tion nationaler Epen in Europa / Kristijono Donelaičio Metai. Europos nacionalinių epų tradicijoje. parengė Mikas Vaicekauskas, Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas,. , + CD Mp3: Kristijonas Donelaitis, Metai, skaito Rolandas Kazlas, Vilnius.
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The third edition compiled by pulling together Donelaitis’ writings and the addendum metsi in It consisted of four idyllstotaling 2, hexameters. Donelaitis ; In gleichem Versmaass ins Dt. There, the northern wind has frightened the fields with its scolding So that bogs and swamps are shrinking, contracting themselves to Stop the puddles of mud from their usual splashing and gurgling.
It was published in for the first time and had laid the foundation for the secular Lithuanian literature.
Enskys, a big carving knife in hand, at once Offered to apportion the boiled meats and roasts, But, no expert as the lords can be in carving, Peasantlike, picked up the bacon with his fingers, Jabbed at chunks and threw them on the laden platters, Since, himself stuffed, he forgot to act politely.
The “vernacular” Lithuanian of the poem is characterized by rhetoricism, dynamic vocabulary, and balance of the epical and the lyrical. Petersburg by the printing house of the Russian Academy of Sciences. Hail, your lusty sniffings; hail, your joy in flowers, Hail!
You, in millennia before we could reflect, Knew already how we should be brought to Light, Knew our needs when we should come to meet that day Later Rhesa gave the manuscripts that had come into his keeping to the Prussian Privy State Archives. It was a wondrous thing that of the endless flock None of the warblers wept when reaching our dear shore.
Till the fields bring yield, let us not tire of waiting. Still, you, too, will meet with days of woe and sorrow.
Retrieved from ” https: It would seem, lord’s pampered nose must turn away from All your work, and laugh and sneer, tilted upward; Watch how easily, though, it would bend downward If like us, poor wretches, they should have to swallow Watery borscht and burnt porridge down their gizzards, Or to share with all of us the woes of serfdom.
The life of peasants goes in circles as the nature does, and is determined by the same laws of the God. There, look now, all pleasure’s gone, has melted, Crows alone joy in the foul decay of autumn, While the birds, with all their songs concealed and silent And their cares forgotten, sleep in their cool dreams. Don’t we know what happens to krsitijonas all, poor wretches Who, like every green stripling, played mefai sported? We, decrepit ancients, we, the hunched old wretches, Like you, we’ve hopped down the avenues of Eden — Just like you, we celebrated our young summer.
Nature of “The Seasons”; 8. There also remain three poems in German: God grant this to each who, loving his Lithuania, Tends his chores as serf and, faithful, speaks Lithuanian. Kristijonas Donelaitis embarked on his creative path by writing fables. Our own lamp, how it flames, Chars already garlands of the earth, and slow Alchemist, transfuses their splendor into fodder!
Does God give his earthly blessings Everywhere metia us, each day, so generously That like any swine, we should devour them always? Donelaitis is an epic poem of the Lithuanians from Lithuania Minor. Like some lowly rogue, he’s troubled and uneasy, Ever cringing, for, like Cain, he’s scared of heaven. Six of them survive today.
Calls of cuckoo, warblings of the nightingale, What the skylarks, paired in flight, played and invented, All are ending, or have now completely ended. Ah, what tasks have we not labored to complete! Yet with His help we kristihonas know their full fruition: Donelaitis was born at Lasdinehlen estate near GumbinnenEast Prussia.
Doors kristujonas ajar, the windows and the sills had fallen; Somehow, everywhere, the whole abode seemed crooked. How they grunt and groan in town and country manor While the summer comes to cheer us with a visit; There’s one with his gout, he’s bawling loud and loutish, There’s another, how he bellows for a doctor!
Aren’t you ashamed that every German housewife Carries flax already hatcheled to the meadows And, amazed and shocked, scolds your laziness? From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Another edition of Brazaitis’ redaction, supplemented by his article ” The poet of buras culture”. All the kinfolk and the kristijonss rushed together, Nicely greeted both the bridegroom and the bride, Then ran off mdtai Krizas’ house, to entertain them. Ah, where are you now, you wondrous days of spring, When we, re-opening the windows of the cottage, Welcomed back your first warm flood of sunshine?
Kristijonas Donelaitis “Metai” by Laima Kuusaitė on Prezi
Woodcut from “The Seasons” by V. It is a common consensus that Donelaitis started writing the fables about Social and literary significance of “The Seasons”; II. Thickets and every heath bestirred themselves; Hill, meadow, dale threw down their sheepskin jackets.
Ah, poor wretches, worn and used up everywhere! Listen, how the road, when skipping wheels try to strike it, Rattles — having frozen — like a well-tightened snaredrum So resounding that its sound keeps echoing in you. Reading Duonelaitis’ verse; 6.
Often in muggy heat we gulped at thin flat beer Or scooped up from puddles draughts of clouded water. Then at once, big lord again, his arms akimbo, Monstrous in abuse, torments the wretched man, Or with smirks derides his simple home and cottage.
Faithful as a true companion, I’ve instructed you, Not in German, not in French have I praised you, But in peasant manner, doneoaitis a trusted friend I have spoken openly, as words came to me. The other two were destroyed during the Napoleonic Wars. You, you silly geese, and you, too, you lazy ducks, Run to the pond and swim before the waters freeze. The text of the first part of “The Seasons”, prepared for publication and published as a separate book by Martynas Jankus — in in Tilsit.