| When the snowfields thaw and the stream beds crawl
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| To the waterfall and river
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| I’ll turn my face to the bright green space
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| Of the mother, my life-giver
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| No man has made a ring of jade
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| Like green corn in the husk
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| No man could own a turquoise stone
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| As deep blue as the dusk
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| So come away from your working day
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| And laugh and let your head go-
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| And bring along an old-time song
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| For dancing in the meadow …
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| Leave your bedside for a moonlight ride
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| Where the midnight air is warmer
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| We’ll sing for the quail and the cotton tail
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| Who still escapes the farmer
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| Deep plum thickets and bramble bushes
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| Where the quiet creatures hide
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| Are part of me-a mystery which I accept with pride
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| If I must stay and lay all day
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| Like a March hare in hedgerow
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| When the hunter’s gone, it’s all night long
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| For dancing in the meadow …
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| When the summer’s over and come October
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| When the evening air is crisper, In the mist and smoke by the twisted oak
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| I’ll listen to the branches whisper
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| Barn dancers reel, the furrowed field
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| Must yield and quickly turn
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| Harvest gone the hoot owl song
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| Is one we now must learn
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| «Who, who, who are you?» |
| and, «If it’s you who said so?»
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| «Who could it be?» |
| «It's only me»
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| I’m dancing in the meadow …
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| When the seasons pass and the hour glass
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| Has all too quickly shattered
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| You’ll lay me low beneath the snow
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| And wonder if I mattered
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| Late in the night your hair gone white
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| Will surely stand on end;
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| You’ll hear me sing, my banjo ring
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| The voice of your old friend
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| If you get brave, run to my grave
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| And holler, «Are you dead?» |
| «No!»
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| No tombstone can cover my bones
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| I’m dancing in the meadow … |