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Let It Grow
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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.
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Let It Grow
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| Grateful Dead |
