Биография[ править править код ] Родился 1 января в небольшой, впоследствии исчезнувшей деревне Лаздинеляй неподалёку от местечка Гумбиннен ныне Гусев , на территории современного Калининского сельского поселения Гусевского района Калининградской области , в семье свободных крестьян не ходили на барщину , но за право пользования землёй платили денежный оброк. Около поступил в пятилетнюю латинскую школу в Кёнигсберге при кафедральном соборе. Окончив её в , поступил в Кёнигсбергский университет , где изучал теологию. Посещал семинар литовского языка , которым руководил бывший учитель И.

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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 to welcome summer. And rats with skunks walked out 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 plague us And sting 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. Spiders, in corners motionless, wove yarn Or soundless, climbed the scaffolds of their snares.

And wolves and bears hopped to the forest-edge, Joyful that someone might be there to rend Clark Mills It was a wondrous thing that of the endless flock None of the warblers wept when reaching our dear shore. No; not to weep, but to rejoice they all came here. 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 bough perched — and all 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 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. Jonynas 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 — 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, Turned to the task: everything to rebuild again. 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 a 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 on 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 to 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, how 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. 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.

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 when 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 stupidity.

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, 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.

He outwits the gentleman who, richly tailored, Reaches for his spoon, but stops to list his ailments. Illustration from "The Seasons" by V. Ah, but why are rich men plagued by such afflictions? Why does death reap up the lords before their hour? 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 now stripped so naked That like hags, already ancient, they sit shrunken. Many the garden workman plucked up in 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. I, an old man, see these marvels and exclaim, Sighing with a woeful wonderment and sorrow: Oh, how empty are the labors of our age! As Saint David tells us, we are fragile beings; Like the 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 fruits 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 of 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?

Women, as for you, why do you grow so idle? Why do you not pluck and hatchel the flax properly? 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. Babbling on so, they forget even their tasks! Clark Mills Again the sun abandons us, she trundles upward, Turns so soon and down the west she sinks so quickly!

Daily dimming, she begrudges us her radiance, Daily longer, shadows yawn and stretch before us. Winds, in fits and starts, try out their wings and bellow, Forcing motes of warmth to scatter from their hideouts. Now the day, no longer tepid, growing chilly, Stirs old folk to wake and burrow for their sheepskins, Hustles wife and feebled goodman to the oven, Badgers those outdoors to slouch back to the cottage For the warmth of steaming soup and good hot victuals.

Earth, her every corner soggy, blubbers softly For our wheels slash through her washed-out back. Before, how smoothly two old horses dragged our load; Now, with four good horses struggling, we bog down, Wheel on axle, groaning, gags and, grinding, turns. 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.

Ah, where are you now, you wondrous days of spring, When we, re-opening the windows of the cottage, Welcomed back your first warm flood of sunshine? 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 All that once, in celebrating summer, scurried, Fluttered through the fields and gaily hopping skittered, All that, swaying to and fro, rose to the clouds And joyously came down to share the grain and insect, All have gone, forsaken us, and fled to hiding.

These old melancholy fields alone remain; Their loveliness is with us like a sunken grave Jonynas Skeletal Death racks all the shrubs and candid forests, And the tempest tears and wastes away their beauties: 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.

Clark Mills Alas, the gardens, too, with all their loveliness — Fresh buds arid blossoms sweet, the beauty of the spring, And its divine perfumes — all, all has passed away! The wealth that the green meads displayed in merry May, The gifts that the lush fields gave forth in joyous June, We now have gathered and stored up beneath the roof; These riches now we cook and eat each blessed day. You, you silly geese, and you, too, you lazy ducks, Run to the pond and swim before the waters freeze.

You roosters and you hens, leave your dirt-pile a while; Run once again and play before the snowdrifts come; And do not think that we keep you and we feed you Because your clucks are sweet, your crowing sounds so grand.

Ah, no! It is because we like your tender meat. Nadas Rastenis Wondrous is it to see women use dull knives, Awesome, how good wives rattle their pots and pans. 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.

Then quick helpers piled the many foods together, Set out pork, fat cuts of beef, brown roast of goose, Lungs and liver, giblets, an array of morsels! Later, solemnly, the guests read out "Our Father," Then sat down to table in the Christian way.

Affectionately Krizas begged his guests to eat As the soul requires, heartily, with good cheer. 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.

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.


Kristijono Donelaičio asmenybė – dosnus palikimas Lietuvai

Temi Now not only do they preen in German dresses. Walls and braces, beams, and many solid rafters Winter gales had loosened from the roof of straw. Miluko, Shenandoah, Pa. Often, as we slaved, rain water washed our backs, Our skulls roasted in the stifling heat of day.

ABB A145 30 PDF

Kristijonas Donelaitis


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