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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, and |
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She bears it away with a love that the river has taught her. |
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Let it flow, greatly grow, 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 is 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 day 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 shouting "i am! i am! i am! i am." |
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Nothin' more, the love of the women, work of men. |
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Seasons round, creatures great and small, up and down as we rise and fall. |
