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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And the fishes’ home, where bullfrogs saluted the summer, Puts its armor on, because of the quarrels of winter, Sending all its animals to sleep in the darkness.

Retrieved from ” https: 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. For four years he studied Lutheran theology. 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 Woodcut from “The Seasons” by V.

Again the sun abandons us, she trundles upward, Turns so soon and down the west she sinks so quickly! And how clear it burns! Whether little serf or master empties his bowels, One must wipe his bottom with a strip of linen, Then must wash his dirty diaper out in water.

He brings forth his fruits that end his time alloted. The author reveals the way of life of the peasants, their traditions, work and festivals.

Hail, everchanging world, you’ve kept the feats of springtime; Hail, man too, for you’ve survived to see the summer. Does God give his earthly blessings Everywhere for us, each day, so generously That like any swine, we should devour them always?

Don’t we all know how we’re born, with everyone naked. All the kinfolk and the neighbors rushed together, Nicely greeted both the bridegroom and the bride, Then ran off to Krizas’ house, to entertain them.

Metai / The Seasons – Kristijonas Donelaitis

So at once the world’s almost as if renewed. Only two original idylls survive.

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This, exactly this, happens to all us wretches. Tell us, dear bird!

Then, when they had eaten some few toads and froglets, They thanked God with all their faith and hearts. His major work, The Seasonswas titled by Rheza. Inhe worked to restore the rectoryand built a new brick church in Ah, but why are rich men plagued by such afflictions? God appoints a civil place for every person: Beetles, megai, flies, a bounce of fleas Formed their batallions everywhere to plague us And sting both peasant and his genteel Sir. Oratorio Seasons following Kristijonas Donelaitis for the first time whole oratorio performed.

Daily dimming, she begrudges us her radiance, Metsi longer, shadows yawn and stretch before us.

Kristijonas Donelaitis

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

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. Sweat, too much, has poured across our dirt-streaked faces, Rolled and splashed in streamlets down our noses.

It consisted of four idyllstotaling donwlaitis, hexameters. Summer must come again, and we’ll enjoy her balm. Ah, where are you now, you wondrous days of spring, When we, re-opening donelaittis windows of the cottage, Welcomed back your first warm flood of sunshine?

Earth, her every corner soggy, blubbers softly For our wheels slash through her washed-out back. Well, you see then, how the brief life we call human And the flowering, falling blossoms are the same. Then, your dolls and wooden horses put aside, Pressed by hardship, you’ll seize work to earn and live. Hail, your lusty sniffings; hail, your joy in flowers, Hail! We end the springtime hardy; Robust all of us, we’re here to meet the summer.

Like a vision which, through sleep, we saw so surely Yet, on waking, shyly shared and barely mentioned, That was how the joy of summer passed away After the war he rebuilt a burned school and sponsored construction of a shelter to widows. They’ve contrived already, now, to speak in French. Garments of the nobles, exquisitely sewn, And their showy headdress you would scorn to wear; Always, like a peasant-woman, plain, you chatter.

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Several guests, who’d tried the brandy to the hilt, Couldn’t even fix their eyes on such big slabs, While some others, drunk and without knives themselves, Clutched the bacon in their fingers and devoured it, So that streams of fat were dripping down their beards, For they felt no peasant, as a guest of Krizas, Obliged to pay respects or act in lordly manner.

Kristijonas Donelaitis “Metai” by Laima Kuusaitė on Prezi

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. Donelaitis had written”The Seasons” in the seventh-eighth decade of the 18th century. As Saint David tells us, we are fragile beings; Like the flowers in the fields, we grow and blossom.

About author Kristijonas Donelaits was one of the most original writers of European Enlightenment, a classic of Lithuanian literature. 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.

What’s the good that Diksas, naked in his riches, Kneels before his hoard of gold and worships, groaning? Slippered Duke as well as us poor devils in sandals, Emperor the same as one of his shawl-covered subjects? 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!

Why so hide yourself, with all your tales to sing? Babbling on so, they forget even their tasks!