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
The day's wild ocean sings and thunders, And beats against the fatal shore, This breaker with dumb sorrow sunders,
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,
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 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,
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
I The dawn has caught fire ere the coming of day! Night calls back her shadows to the ravines,
Little daisy, white as snow, To delight me as I tread, From the roadside dust you grow, Lifting up your pretty head.
Comments about Jurgis Baltrušaitis
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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The day's wild ocean sings and thunders,
And beats against the fatal shore,
This breaker with dumb sorrow sunders,
And these like laughing victors roar,
Their sheen – one joy of vernal wonders,
Their sheen – vast winter's shining hoar.
In wrath triumphant forward swinging,
The lifted billow calls and fails,
A joyous giant shouting, singing,
Its voice the voice of sounding gales,
Its glory in the sunlight flinging,
Whose noonday glow it holds and hails.
Across the sea, now lightly foaming,
Another rears, that stirs the deep,
And floods the shore...