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.

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Oh, the fragile creatures scarcely saw his flower When his sorrows crowded, jostled, and harassed him.

Illustration from “The Seasons” by V. Till the fields bring yield, let us not tire of waiting. We, decrepit mettai, we, the hunched old wretches, Like you, we’ve hopped down the avenues of Eden — Just like you, we celebrated our young summer. Now the wedding guests, at their ease, having eaten And too generously quaffed their heavy draughts, Quite forgot to say their prayers, as Christians should, And like pigs of manor serf a shame to tell megaiSoon began to sing and squeal out swinish ditties.

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? There are many imbeciles who in their wicked Hearts will look on the poor peasantry as louts, Yet they do themselves often behave as louts. Listen, how the road, when skipping wheels try to strike it, Rattles — having frozen — like a well-tightened snaredrum So resounding that its sound keeps echoing in you.


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After the school rector died, Donelaitis took over his position. Houston, we have a problem! See more popular or the latest prezis. InRheza also published the fables.

Please log in to add your comment. Comments 0 Please log in to add your comment. It is wonderful to see how the forests metao pinetrees Show up everywhere, with curly crests, and bearded, And, like powdered dandies, stand with elbows akimbo. Still, you, too, will meet with days of woe and sorrow. Hail, everchanging world, you’ve kept the feats of springtime; Hail, man too, for you’ve survived to see the summer.

Kristijonas Donelaitis

Houston, we have a problem! 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 harrow.

Some had returned in worn and dnoelaitis feathered garb, Some carried back a maimed or broken wing or crest, Though in the fields they found but little sustenance, They did not grieve and no heart-breaking tears were shed; They all sang their merry melodies.

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Another brother, Michael, inherited the father’s farm. Sir in silks and serf concealed by straw have to whimper Till the time when both at last start sensibly thinking. Tell us, dear bird! And his wife, already, as he stood rejoicing, Clambered donelaitiw again out of the cold household, Greeting with her pointed beak her loved companion.

His parents were free peasants who owned the land that they cultivated.

The Baltic States, years of dependence, — As Saint David tells us, we are fragile beings; Like the flowers in the fields, we grow and blossom. Babbling on so, they forget even their tasks! Garments of the nobles, exquisitely sewn, And their showy headdress you would scorn to wear; Always, like a peasant-woman, plain, you doenlaitis. It was a wondrous thing that of the endless flock None of the warblers wept when reaching our dear shore.

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And cold’s creations, with the ice, diminished As foam of snow changed everywhere to nothing. And thus, as we tired ourselves, we often swallowed Dnoelaitis barley soup and gnawed at scraps of crust. Why so hide yourself, with all your tales to sing? We, peasant and landlord, in the cradle whining, Show so faintly in the bud our life to come!

Thus the world begins again to welcome the winter.