a Lithuanian Symbolist poet and translator, who wrote his works in Lithuanian and Russian. In addition to his important contributions to Lithuanian literature, he was noted as a political activist and diplomat. Himself one of the foremost exponents of iconology, he was the father of art historian and critic Jurgis Baltrušaitis Jr.
Baltrušaitis was born to a family of farmers in Paantvardys village near Jurbarkas, which was then under Imperial Russian rule. In 1885, he entered Kaunas gymnasium, and graduated in 1893; he then entered the Faculty of Physical and Mathematical Sciences at Moscow University. At the same time, he attended lectures in the Faculty of ... more »
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Jurgis Baltrušaitis Poems
Seeing Off A Stork
The sun's hanging low in the sky, All the woodland birds quieten now. They gather in flocks and fly From the woods, now more spacious, somehow.
Transfiguration's light descends Upon the fleeting hour and age, –
The Rustling Of Hair-Grass
Greet the tender grassblades by your path, and listen While the clay-sprung grass that's fine as hair will whisper,
Loudly and sadly, one stroke on another, Sang the bell to the slumbering world... Just like the tocsin when fire is approaching,
Testament Of Grief
When pain assails your heart to tear it, Your naked heart, its helpless prey, Receive the gift of grief and bear it,
Little daisy, white as snow, To delight me as I tread, From the roadside dust you grow, Lifting up your pretty head.
The day's wild ocean sings and thunders, And beats against the fatal shore, This breaker with dumb sorrow sunders,
The Song Of The Tumbledown House
A tumbledown old house I know – Beside its doorstep burdocks grow; Its narrow windows seem to wince As if it grieves and weeps long since,
To The Minstrel
Not for a flash of flame – your zither, brother! Its charm is charged to praise the macrocosm Where ages gather, in one enigmatic circle,
To The Favorites Of Violence
Let the headsman's black axe sever The thread of life the Highest spun; Immortal thought it will not bring to ruin,
To The Crucified Homeland
An orphan's fate, to stray and stumble On ways of blood and fire, is thine... Yet in your wordless grief, my humble,
The Wanderer's Harp
I have been roaming on for days and days. Ensnared in days, I wander on and on, Whole days along my destined roads and ways,
Camomile, you mite of whiteness, To refresh the road I've taken, Rising from the dust, you stand there,
Ocean And Droplet
Ocean and droplet, like corn – ear and flower, Breathe in fulfillment of one same behest: Winter and summer it spins in the world
Comments about Jurgis Baltrušaitis
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Seeing Off A Stork
The sun's hanging low in the sky,
All the woodland birds quieten now.
They gather in flocks and fly
From the woods, now more spacious, somehow.
Brother stork, my visitor rare,
Both together we weathered our woes.
Now, my brother, alone you prepare
To travel – how far, God knows!
There gardens in autumn don't fade,
Skies shine in the sun's golden fire,
And here – only empty fields
And the falsehood of empty desire.
Mottled Autumn through stubble and straw
Lays its pathways all covered with mud.
I dream of your country, dear stork,