| Morning comes, she follows the path to the river shore
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| Lightly sung, her song is the latch on the morning’s door
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| See the sun sparkle in the reeds, silver beads, pass into the sea
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| She comes from a town where they call her the woodcutter’s daughter
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| She’s brown as the bank where she kneels down to gather her water
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| And she bears it away with a love that the river has taught her
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| Let it flow, let it flow, wide and clear
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| Round and round, the cut of the plow in the furrowed field
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| Seasons round, the bushels of corn and the barley meal
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| Broken ground, open and beckoning to the spring
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| Black dirt live again
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| The plowman is broad as the back of the land he’s sowing
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| As he dances the circular track of the plow ever knowing
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| That the work of his days measures more than the planting and growing
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| Let it grow, let it grow, greatly yield
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| What shall we say, shall we call it by a name?
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| As well to count the angels dancing on a pin
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| Water bright as the sky from which it came
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| And the name is on the earth that takes it in
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| We will not speak but stand inside the rain
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| And listen to the thunder shout, «I am! |
| I am! |
| I am! |
| I am!»
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| So it goes, we make what we make since the world began
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| Nothing more, the love of the women, the work of man
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| Seasons round, creatures great and small
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| Up and down as we rise and fall
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| What shall we say, shall we call it by a name?
|
| As well to count the angels dancing on a pin
|
| Water bright as the sky from which it came
|
| And the name is on the earth that takes it in
|
| We will not speak but stand inside the rain
|
| And listen to the thunder shout, «I am! |
| I am! |
| I am! |
| I am!» |