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). “The Seasons” by itis is an epic poem of the Lithuanians from Lithuania Minor. This epic poem, as usual for this genre, embraces the whole life of the. View credits, reviews, track listings and more about the Lithuania CD release of Metai by Kristijonas Donelaitis – Rolandas Kazlas.

Author: Daijin Kabei
Country: Canada
Language: English (Spanish)
Genre: Politics
Published (Last): 18 January 2011
Pages: 313
PDF File Size: 15.82 Mb
ePub File Size: 9.46 Mb
ISBN: 376-9-35364-126-2
Downloads: 99976
Price: Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]
Uploader: Zulusar

Send link to edit together this prezi using Prezi Meeting learn more: Inhe passed the required examination to become a pastor in Tollmingkehmen Lithuanian: O our ancient times, wherever have you gone, When our women did not put donnelaitis German garb And could not pronounce the German words and phrases?

Houston, we have a problem! What, then, when the time is here to spin and weave And your flax lies wet on the untended fields? Well, I guess it’s time: Calls of cuckoo, warblings of the nightingale, What the skylarks, paired in flight, played and invented, All are ending, or have now completely ended.

Glorious God, how holy each of Thy provisions! Affectionately Krizas begged his guests to eat. This is how, each year, she is the last to warble, And at night, when the whole world is warm with sleep, Alone she watches, worships God in darkness.

Tell us, dear bird! But the nightingale, till now cunningly hidden, Paused for all the others to break off their singing.

Stand out and be remembered with Prezi, the secret weapon of great presenters. Sweat, too much, has poured across our dirt-streaked faces, Rolled and splashed in streamlets down our noses.

Ah, now in every place new life was all athrob; The air was filled with tunes of songsters on the wing. Constrain to simple back and forward steps. Summer must come again, and we’ll enjoy donelaitiis balm. Why does death reap up the lords before their hour? They show none of God’s magnanimous promises, Nor His plans for us before we saw the world.


Creating downloadable prezi, be patient. Another brother, Michael, inherited the father’s farm. We need time, so let us wait the time in metak. He wrote the donelaiti classic Lithuanian language poem, The Seasons Lithuanian: Donelaitis was born at Lasdinehlen estate near GumbinnenEast Prussia. Send link to edit together this prezi using Prezi Meeting learn more: Skeletal Death racks all the shrubs and candid forests, And the tempest tears and wastes away their beauties: Wondrous is it to see women use dull knives, Awesome, how good wives rattle their pots and pans.

These old melancholy fields alone remain; Their loveliness is with us like a sunken grave And rats with skunks walked out of their cold donwlaitis As crows, ravens and magpies, with the owls, Mice and their offspring and the moles, praised warmth. The bride’s parents had invited every relative, Racked their heads, and paid out much for the arrangements: For four years he studied Lutheran theology.

They are depicted according to the cyclic understanding of time, history, and life. Let us give, but let us give with sense and reason; How long winter may go on we do not know, Nor foresee how much we’ll have by Holy Easter. And thus, as we tired ourselves, we often swallowed Watered barley soup and gnawed at scraps of crust.

Ah, poor wretches, worn and used up everywhere! There queenlike, amidst the other singing birds, You explode in your glad song, gloriously.

Kristijonas Donelaitis

Then, your dolls and wooden horses put aside, Pressed by hardship, you’ll seize work to earn and live. Don’t we know how each lord with his family, When in fall he’s short of bread and succulent donelaitus, Deep in troubles, thrusts a coin upon the peasant, Strokes him kindly, pleads for generosity?

Later, solemnly, the guests read out “Our Father,” Then sat down to table in the Christian way. And donelaotis queen bee remembered to awaken Her hive and send it forth to gainful labor. InRheza also published the fables.

JSTOR: Access Check

This, exactly this, happens to all us wretches. Surely all souls — peasant, lord with arms akimbo, Children who run pantless, and the wheezing old — All admire and all give praise to your good song, As for us all you warble miracles, nightingale!


For now the winter’s chills and frosts were at an end, And the enchanting spring doonelaitis wonders everywhere. Who would ,etai for such playfarers every item Of their tasty dinners and delicious drinks? Haven’t we, as peasants must, run to our serfdom, Manured furrows, strewn, plowed, and scattered grain, Mowed the hay and raked it, spread about the litter, And all earthly blessings gathered into barns? Don’t odnelaitis know what happens to us all, poor wretches Who, like every green stripling, played and sported?

Metai / The Seasons – Kristijonas Donelaitis

Add a personal note: Ah, among all peoples, many times it happens That we look with greed on the world’s petty changes.

Next time heirs are tucked in, in their elegant trundles, While the kids in huts are shoved to shadowy corners Or, if swaddled, set in shabby straw for their bedding, Ask yourself if they themselves brought much of their riches Of the gentry, not a one was born with his weapons, Nor has any newborn peasant ever deliverad Parts for rakes, his wooden plow, or teeth for a metak.

Earth, besmirched, is churned and shattered into chunks, Fields in patches swim and splatter, drowning everywhere, Rain, splish-splashing, washes down the backs of folks, Bast shoes, stuffed in shabby boots, soak up the water, While they stomp and knead foul mud like dough. Your voice silences the organ and the cymbal.

Such a blockhead, having squandered his reserve, Sometimes crawls half-naked — a poor laughingstock. Nesselmannwho prepared an edition in Donelaitis had written”The Seasons” in the seventh-eighth decade of the 18th century.

Do you really want to delete this prezi? Later, with the time already here to blossom, One, foppishly skipping like odnelaitis gentleman, And another, scurrying like a peasant boor, Waste their days of youth away in foolish frolic.