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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Donelaitis and his works are considered to be an important part of Donelaifis culture, which also led to creation of literature and music works based on Donelaitis’s life and his poem The Seasons. 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.
Listen, how the road, when skipping wheels try doneelaitis strike it, Rattles — having frozen — like a well-tightened snaredrum So resounding that its sound keeps echoing in you.
Metai / The Seasons – Kristijonas Donelaitis
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. Spiders, in corners motionless, wove yarn Or soundless, climbed the scaffolds of their snares. Well, you see then, how the brief life we call human And the flowering, falling blossoms are the same. Donelaitis is an epic poem of the Lithuanians from Lithuania Minor.
Glorious God, how holy each of Thy provisions! Truly, after suckling, as his soul requires, Carefree, grows each day, climbs slowly from his bud, Yet the blossom does donelaiyis flower in one day, Many days must pass before his bud can burst And display, quite open, all his hidden beauty. Haven’t we, poor wretches, worked and worked the fields? For four years he studied Lutheran theology.
What’s the good that Diksas, naked in his riches, Kneels before his hoard of gold and worships, groaning? Only two original idylls survive.
Donelaitis doenlaitis born at Lasdinehlen estate near GumbinnenEast Prussia. Sir in silks and serf concealed by straw have to whimper Till the time when both at last start sensibly thinking. Some, parading crests as awe-inspiring princes, Others, slogging through the muck as diggers of cowdung. All who had to put some shoes on, bast or donelaitia, Cursed the autumn for its works and its sloppy messes. Who would earn for such playfarers every item Of their tasty dinners and delicious drinks?
As they ate with pleasure in the peasant style, Krizas called the servants, and they soon came in Bearing strong beer in a barrel on a litter, While the helpers hurried in with wedding pitchers, Straining draught and heavy draught of milky beer, Since a thickish beer that slides along the palate In great gulps will too soon satiate the stomach. You, you silly geese, and you, too, you lazy ducks, Run to the pond and swim before the waters freeze. Thus the world begins again to welcome the winter.
Affectionately Krizas begged his guests to eat. I, an old man, see these marvels and exclaim, Sighing with a woeful wonderment and sorrow: The life of peasants goes in circles as the nature does, and is determined by the same laws of the God. 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.
In other projects Wikimedia Commons. It’s no riddle; scoffing at the chores of peasants, Lazy, shamming good, they overstuff their stomachs; We, ketai serfs they scorn, our stomachs light with skimmings, Buttermilk and whey, we hurry-scurry briskly; With a snatch of bacon or Lithuanian sausage, We work better at the labors forced upon us. They swapped tales, and the musicians rushed together, Playing the peasant melodies, now for the dance.
Now the wedding guests, at their ease, having eaten And too donelaitia quaffed their heavy draughts, Quite forgot to say their prayers, as Christians should, And like pigs of manor serf a shame to tell itSoon began to sing and squeal out swinish ditties.
Why are you forever hidden, Singing as the darkness falls, and through the night? As the soul requires, heartily, with good cheer.
Kristijonas Donelaitis “Metai” by Laima Kuusaitė on Prezi
Who would plow the fields, and plant, and donelaits, and harvest, Who would thresh the grain, or cart it off to market, If there were no Lauras, or no generous Krizas? Views Read Edit View history. InRheza also published the fables.