Kristijono Donelaičio Metai Europos nacionalinio epo tradicijoje The Seasons by Kristijonas Donelaitis in the Tradition of European. National Epics Rhesa was the first to publish Donelaitis’ writings (based on the manuscripts in .. Metai [The Seasons]: skiriama Kristijono Donelaičio osioms gimimo. This Page is automatically generated based on what Facebook users are interested in, and not affiliated with or endorsed by anyone associated with the topic.
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Now the sun rose again to rouse the world And laughed to topple down chill winter’s labors. And cold’s creations, with the ice, diminished As foam of snow changed everywhere to nothing. Soon the bland weather stroked and woke the fields, Called up herbs of all species from the dead. Thickets and every heath bestirred themselves; Hill, meadow, dale threw down their sheepskin jackets. All that had perished in foul autumn, tearful, In the lake clung to life the winter through, Or in some burrow slept beneath a bush, Crept forth in crowd and throng ketai welcome summer.
And rats with skunks walked donelaicko of their cold crannies As crows, ravens and magpies, with the owls, Mice and their offspring and the moles, praised warmth. Beetles, mosquitos, flies, a bounce of fleas Formed their batallions everywhere to mettai us And megai both peasant and his genteel Sir. And the queen bee remembered to awaken Her hive and send it forth to gainful labor. Through chink and opening they swarmed in clouds To play their tuneful pipes in the mild air.
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Spiders, in corners motionless, wove yarn Or soundless, climbed the scaffolds of their snares. It was a wondrous thing that of the endless flock None of the warblers wept when reaching our dear shore. No; not to meai, but to rejoice they all came here. For now the winter’s chills and frosts were at an end, And the enchanting spring wrought wonders everywhere. Ah, now in every place new life was all athrob; The air was filled with tunes of songsters on the wing.
Some sang in lower key, some soared to heights of tone: Some flew far, far above, up to the silvery clouds: Some on a low dondlaicio perched — and mdtai of them praised God.
As yet the food was scarce, but none of them complained. Some had returned in worn and shabby feathered garb, Some carried back a maimed or meetai 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.
And the stork, returning gladly with his neighbors, On the straw roof, landlordlike, clattered his bill.
And his wife, already, as he stood rejoicing, Clambered once again out of the cold household, Greeting with her pointed beak her loved companion. They discovered the straw roof grieviously damaged, And their new home, built a mere two years before, Weather-beaten, torn, and broken conelaicio almost ruined. Walls and braces, beams, and many solid rafters Winter gales had loosened from the roof of straw.
Doors were ajar, the windows and the sills had fallen; Somehow, everywhere, the whole abode seemed crooked. So they both at once, like all good homemakers, Mtai to the task: Soon the husband gathered boughs and twigs in armfuls, While, without delay, his wife patched up their home.
Then the two, after their heavy toil and labor, Flew off swiftly to odnelaicio marsh, to fish their dinner. Then, when they had eaten some few toads and froglets, They thanked God with all their faith and hearts.
Trivial man, thou, learn at last to be contented! And in tastier satisfactions, think donnelaicio God. But the nightingale, till now cunningly hidden, Paused for all the others to break off their singing. This is how, each year, she is the last donelaicil warble, And at night, when the whole world is warm with sleep, Alone she watches, worships God in darkness.
And as dawn breaks, and we clamber from our beds, Often she can rouse us, gladdening our hearts.
Glorious God, donellaicio holy each of Thy provisions! In the fall and winter we take to our bedding And snore, all nestled up beside the kindly oven.
Then, creature we cherish, not even you appear; Like us, you lie silent in the shield of darkness, There in dreams, perhaps, capturing foolish flies. But joyous, when we come to celebrate the springtime And make ready to begin our labors in the fields, You take up your singing shepherd’s pipe at once, and With each ringing voice and sound and gentle tone, Urge us to rejoice and lift our labor’s burden.
Tell us, dear bird! Why are you forever hidden, Singing as the darkness falls, and through the night? Why so hide yourself, with all your tales to sing? 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!
Your voice silences the organ and the cymbal. Violins and zither pause, ashamed, when you Lift your sweet voice up and up, in simple song There queenlike, amidst the other singing birds, You explode in your glad song, gloriously. When, at times, we catch a glimpse of your attire, Then like peasant, sparrow, you appear to us. Garments of the nobles, exquisitely sewn, And their showy headdress you would scorn to wear; Always, like a peasant-woman, plain, you chatter. Ah, among all peoples, many times it happens That we look with greed on the world’s petty changes.
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Great oaf, Diksas, with his swollen urban airs And his glittering clothes, each day reviewed, renewed, Like an idol, preens his cockscomb for the peasants; But donelqicio we must witness all his foolish gabble, Even simple peasantry must spit, and wonder That such pompous, blinded louts can scorn the Lord, And like squires grinning, show off their conelaicio. Oh, how often Krizas, in his shoes of felt And his peasant sheepskin jacket, worn for visits, Under his plain roof sings like a nightingale As, with his whole heart, he gives praise to his God.
Hail, everchanging world, you’ve kept the feats of springtime; Hail, man too, for you’ve survived to see the summer. Hail, your lusty sniffings; hail, your joy in flowers, Hail! God grant you goodly springtimes in abundance; Strapping and carousing, may you live to meet them. God grant this to each who, loving his Lithuania, Tends his chores as serf and, faithful, speaks Lithuanian. May he meet, God willing, every spring robustly, May he go on merrymaking into summer.
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, bedrowsed but strong and happy. He outwits the gentleman who, richly tailored, Reaches for donelalcio spoon, but stops to list his ailments.
What’s the good that Mikols gives the world his presence, Bobbles bloated paunch, himself puffed like a bladder? Like some lowly rogue, he’s troubled and uneasy, Ever cringing, for, like Cain, he’s scared of heaven. What’s the good that Diksas, naked in his riches, Kneels before his hoard of gold and worships, groaning? 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.
Illustration from “The Seasons” by V. 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! Ah, but why are rich men plagued by such afflictions?
Why does death reap up the lords before their hour? It’s no riddle; scoffing at the chores of peasants, Lazy, shamming good, they overstuff their stomachs; We, the serfs they scorn, our stomachs light with skimmings, Buttermilk and whey, we hurry-scurry briskly; With a snatch of dinelaicio or Lithuanian sausage, We work better at the labors forced upon us.
We end the springtime hardy; Robust all of us, we’re here to meet the summer.
How the sun, its upward climb again completed, White, its calm wheel spoked with daylight ever higher, Poised immobile, stands and plays on radiant heaven!
And how clear it burns! Our own lamp, how it flames, Chars already garlands of the earth, and slow Alchemist, transfuses their splendor into fodder! Some, alas, of our herbs are metaai stripped so naked That like hags, already ancient, they sit shrunken.
Many the garden workman plucked up doneelaicio his hand And, a while, joyed in their variegated beauties, Then cast them aside already withered, worthless. Calls of cuckoo, warblings of the nightingale, What the skylarks, paired in flight, played and invented, All are ending, or have now completely ended. So at once the world’s almost as if renewed.
I, an old man, see these marvels and exclaim, Sighing with a woeful wonderment dpnelaicio sorrow: Oh, how empty are the labors of our age!
As Saint David tells us, we are fragile beings; Like metak flowers in the fields, we grow and blossom. Each man at his birth is like a simple bud — First his blossom will unfold and open out, Then, his flowering over and himself divested. He brings forth his ketai that end his time alloted. This, exactly this, happens to all us wretches. We, peasant and landlord, in the cradle whining, Show so faintly in the bud our life to come!
Later, with the time already here to blossom, One, foppishly skipping like a gentleman, And another, scurrying like a peasant boor, Waste their days megai youth away in foolish frolic. Yet, already, as the beard begins to grow, And as each must turn his hand to earnest labor, Ah, how soon our foolish childlike fancies fade!
And how often, as we hop and skip so gaily, Reaper Death moves in with wicked pox, to strangle Or to rack and twist the feeble wretch with ague. And for girls and youngsters she forever hones her Ready scythe, and without care for their young faces, Blindly hews, so well that bonnet, braid, and cap With the beauties of the world turn into nothing. Well, you see then, how the brief life we call human And the flowering, falling blossoms are the same.
Some plucked lordling often seems to laugh at peasants, And the fool, who smiles, despises their hard labors, As if he could keep his footing without peasants Or take pleasure in his cakes without their dung? Ah, what would lords do if they should lose their peasants, And if such poor people didn’t bring their dung?
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. 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. Women, as for you, why do you grow so idle?
Why do you not pluck and hatchel the flax properly? Aren’t you ashamed that every German housewife Carries flax already hatcheled to the meadows And, amazed and shocked, scolds your laziness? 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?
What, then, when the time is here to spin and weave And your flax lies wet on the untended fields? O our ancient times, wherever have you gone, When our women did not put on German garb And could not pronounce the German words and phrases? Now not only do they preen in German dresses. They’ve contrived already, now, to speak in French. Babbling on so, they forget even their tasks! Again the sun abandons us, she trundles upward, Turns so soon and down the west she sinks so quickly!