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, greatly 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; 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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Chorus
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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
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I am, I am, I am, I am
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So it goes, we make what we made since the world began
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Nothing 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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[chorus]
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Weather Report Suite: Part 2 (Let It Grow)
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Grateful Dead |