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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Staniulio knygynas, Kaunas: Woodcut from “The Seasons” by V. Petras, ladling the stewed pieces from the kettle, Dragging roasts out of the oven with a hook, Urged the hungry guests to set to, one and all. Still, you, too, will meet with days of woe and sorrow.
Don’t mind, comrades, as you clear and sweep the dungheap, That all kinds of stenches sometimes make you sneeze Or that in the stable you must wade and groan. There queenlike, amidst the other singing birds, You explode in your glad song, gloriously. Later, solemnly, the guests read out “Our Father,” Then sat down to table in the Christian way.
These are original pieces, marked by its own distinctive style, versification hexameter and arrangement of the material.
No; not to weep, but to rejoice they all came here.
Grant us, God, that after all the holidays, and Live to joy the New Year in a holy manner, We may gather once again to greet as neighbors. Spauda ir kaszta Martyno Jankaus, Ah, among all peoples, many times it happens That we look with greed on the world’s petty changes. Another edition of Brazaitis’ redaction, supplemented by his article ” The kristijonnas of buras culture”.
Like some lowly rogue, he’s troubled and uneasy, Ever cringing, for, like Cain, he’s scared of heaven.
Kristijonas Donelaitis ”Metai” by gintare daujotaite on Prezi
Miluko, Shenandoah, Pa. This publication date is given on the book’s cover.
The edition includes the following works by Donelaitis: The ruins of the Lochstedt castle donelaits the aftermath of a battle. But the nightingale, till now cunningly hidden, Paused for all the others to break off their singing.
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.
Such a man will hustle roundly till he’s drooping, Bow before his meager supper with contentment, Haying eaten, thank the Lord with satisfaction, Roll into his bed, donelaitiss but strong and happy. It was Rhesa who eventually gave to the Lithuanian original of the poem the title of The Seasons.
And thus, as we tired ourselves, we often swallowed Watered barley soup and gnawed at scraps of crust. Donelaitis und seine dichterischen Gestalten: Well, I guess it’s time: People in “The Seasons”; 9.
Ah, at least let’s hasten to warm up our cottages, In good husbandry ready the sheds for cattle, And make sure that not a newborn piglet freezes. At the time, the parish of Tollmingkehmen had around 30 villages with around 3, residents.
When he needs to use one coin, he’s scared to take it; Starved, he swallows uncooked victuals like an idiot, Shivering in his ragged finery, near naked.
After the school donelaotis died, Donelaitis took over his position. Language of “The Seasons” and its adornments; 7. All these meats the Krizas’ cook so chopped and pounded, Violently boiled and roasted for the wedding, Such a roar and tumult all along the street Startled village neighbor Pauluks with amazement.
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. Walls and kriwtijonas, beams, and many solid rafters Winter gales had loosened from the roof of straw. Females, Lithuanians, don’t you bow your heads, Quite ashamed, that even women of the Germans With their neat work in the meadows have disgraced you?