Įdomiausias „Metų” veikėjas. Jis yra visiems žinomas, visų mėgstamas, sugebantis visiems įtikti kaimo seniūnas. Tarpininkas tarp būrų ir ponų. 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.

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Thus the world begins again to welcome the winter.

Gentlemen, who fly around on splendid stallions, Going visiting each day in the finest of garments, Also cursed the filthy autumn when the mud splashed. Alas, the gardens, too, with all their loveliness — Fresh buds arid blossoms sweet, the beauty of the spring, And its divine perfumes — all, all has passed away!

Donelaitis was born at Lasdinehlen estate near GumbinnenEast Prussia.

Hail, everchanging world, you’ve kept the feats of springtime; Hail, man too, for you’ve survived to see the summer. We need time, so let us wait the time in patience.

Did we expect, awaiting some stoop shouldered autumn, That we’d fade so suddenly and fail so fast? These old melancholy fields alone remain; Their loveliness is with us like a sunken grave Garments of the nobles, exquisitely sewn, And their showy headdress you would scorn to wear; Always, like a peasant-woman, plain, you chatter.

And how often, as we hop and skip so gaily, Reaper Death moves in with wicked pox, to strangle Or to rack and twist the feeble wretch with ague. Then, your dolls and wooden horses put aside, Pressed by hardship, you’ll seize work to earn and live.

Some, parading crests as awe-inspiring princes, Others, slogging through the muck as diggers of cowdung. You, in millennia before we could reflect, Knew already how we should be brought to Donelwitis, Knew our needs when we should come to meet that day Some, alas, of our herbs are now stripped so naked That like hags, already ancient, they sit shrunken.

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Metai donelqitis, which became one of metal principal works of Lithuanian poetry. Soon the husband gathered boughs and twigs in armfuls, While, without delay, his wife patched up their home. His world view was shaped by the classical curriculum, required Doneoaitis studies, and the Pietism movement.

You, our heavenly benefactor!

All that had perished in foul autumn, tearful, In the lake clung to life the winter through, Or in some burrow slept beneath a bush, Crept forth in crowd and throng to welcome summer. Classic Lithuanian Literature Anthology.

Kristijonas Donelaitis – Wikipedia

Thickets and every donelaifis bestirred themselves; Hill, meadow, dale threw down their sheepskin jackets. Calls of cuckoo, warblings of the nightingale, What the skylarks, paired in flight, played and invented, All are ending, or have now completely ended. Why are you forever hidden, Singing as the darkness falls, and through the night? Donelaitis had written”The Seasons” in the seventh-eighth decade of the netai century.

And how clear it burns! Spiders, in corners motionless, wove yarn Or soundless, climbed the scaffolds of their snares. Often, as we slaved, rain water washed our backs, Our skulls roasted in the stifling heat of day. Hail, your lusty sniffings; hail, your joy in flowers, Hail!

Kristijonas Donelaitis – Metai The Seasons. They are depicted according to the cyclic mstai of time, history, and life.

Kristijonas Donelaitis

We end the springtime hardy; Robust all of us, we’re here to meet the summer. Listen, how the doenlaitis, when skipping wheels try to strike it, Rattles — having frozen — like a well-tightened snaredrum So resounding that its sound keeps echoing in you.

Aren’t you ashamed that every German housewife Carries flax already hatcheled to the meadows And, amazed and shocked, scolds your laziness?

Often in muggy heat we gulped at thin flat beer Or scooped up from puddles draughts of clouded water. His parents were free peasants who owned the land that they cultivated.

Now, where formerly we celebrated the springtime, Gaily plucking for our use his herbs and his petals, And where later warmer pleasures ended with summer, There have risen drifts of snow with hillocks of whiteness, And the flowers of the winter, that winter has woven. Who would earn for such playfarers every item Of their tasty dinners and delicious drinks?

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Metai / The Seasons – Kristijonas Donelaitis

Winds, in fits and starts, try out their wings and bellow, Forcing motes of warmth to scatter from their hideouts. In nature, the summer comes after the spring and is followed by the autumn and dknelaitis last winter, and everything starts from the beginning again. Then the two, after their heavy toil and labor, Flew off swiftly to a marsh, to fish their dinner.

Branches where the birdlings, hatched in heavy leafage, In the nest, as in a cradle, cried and twittered, Or later plump with feathers, flew about and chattered, And aflight. Again the sun abandons us, she trundles upward, Turns so soon and down the west she sinks so quickly! All who had to put some shoes on, bast or wooden, Cursed the autumn for its works dpnelaitis its sloppy messes.

He outwits the gentleman who, richly tailored, Reaches for his spoon, but stops to list his ailments. Some flew far, far above, up metaii the silvery clouds: Donelaitis lived in Tollmingkehmen from until his death in Texts list Authors list lt. Later, thrusting out her head from the clouds, the winter Quarreled like a shrew about the dungs of the autumn, And, with frosts, she burned away its oozing labors; Once she’d shoveled up the fall’s manures, the winter Built us all a road upon the horrible mudflats, Teaching how to skate and fly again with sledges.

It was a wondrous thing that of the endless flock None of the warblers wept when reaching our dear shore.