Jurgis Baltrušaitis (May 2, 1873 – January 3, 1944 / Lithuania)
The dawn has caught fire ere the coming of day!
Night calls back her shadows to the ravines,
And in a pearly throng, in girdles of fire,
The caravans of the clouds depart...
Space is laid bare amid dewy valleys,
Distances have been moved aside into infinity, –
As though from God's heights, from deeps forbidden,
All the veils have fallen over all the world...
The bay has been aroused, the wave is growing,
It has thundered in wild fury,
And the stillness has been shattered like a resonant vessel,
In the great triumph of morning...
Great hour! The radiant dawn
Has spread her hundred – hued fan in the east,
And flocks of birds, soaring in the splendor,
Seem to be splashing in a living stream...
And sound after sound, quivering in the stillness,
Over forest, over river, over the fat cornfield,
Strives toward the heavens, that grow blue in fire,
Laughs and calls from the soundless depths...
Into earth's dewy circle, opening cuplike,
Like foaming wine, the sultry day is poured,
And every hill is a step toward holiday,
And every moment a promise that life's gladness is ours!
Hark! It is light! The twilight melts,
The earth is laid bare...
The lovely day, God's festival,
Is poured out on the sleepy fields...
Abundantly and all – powerfully
It spatters with the gold of its rays, –
In the misty world like a bright hymn
It breathes more widely, more ardently...
The rows of clouds,
It is green, it is blue
With a sea of flax and corn – flowers...
With free song, bell song,
Day works the miracle of life,
In space, like the sea,
It glitters, sparkles, burns!
To S. A. Poliakov
The waves of dawn rock the boat –
Living praise to being!
The measureless distances are in nuptial fire,
And sun and sea – in me...
Over the azure depth that knows no bottom,
I am myself a wandering wave...
I feast, I whirl at the feast of light,
Like a spark in a living fire...
Before the miracle of the flashing of immortal lightnings
I fall down, mortal, –
Between me and the universe, at the hour of fullness,
There has come to be no dividing line...
The world is a silent foaming in the thinning dusk,
I am a flame of prayer in a psalm...
The rays play, shatter, upon the mast, –
My sail is of bright brocade!
With a prayerful sound, like an unearthy choir,
Wave flashes behind wave...
And each sings a quiet tale,
That the heart of man is a – bloom!
Comments about this poem (Morning Songs by Jurgis Baltrušaitis )
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