Morning comes, she follows the path to the river shore
Lightly sung, her song is the latch on the morning's door
See the sun sparkle in the reeds; silver beads pass into the sea
She comes from a town where they call her the woodcutter's daughter
She's brown as the bank where she kneels down to gather her water
And she bears it away with a love that the river has taught her
Let it flow, greatly flow, wide and clear
Round and round, the cut of the plow in the furrowed field
Seasons round, the bushels of corn and the barley...
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