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You wore a little cross Of gold around your neck I saw it as you flew between my reason Like a raven in the night time when you left I wear a chain upon my wrist That bears no name You touched it and you wore it And you kept it in your pillow all the same My high-flying bird Has flown from out my arms I thought myself her keeper She thought I meant her harm She thought I was the archer A weatherman of words But I could never shoot down My, my high-flying bird The white walls of your dressing room Are stained in scarlet red You bled upon the cold stone Like a young man Hmm, in the foreign field of death Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful? Is all I heard you say You never closed your eyes at night And learned to love daylight Instead you moved away My high-flying bird Has flown from out my arms I thought myself her keeper She thought I meant her harm She thought I was the archer A weatherman of words But I could never shoot down My My high-flying bird Has flown from out my arms I thought myself her keeper She thought I meant her harm She thought I was the archer A weatherman of words But I could never shoot down My, my high-flying bird My high-flying, high-flying bird My high-flying, high-flying bird My high-flying, high-flying bird My high-flying, high-flying bird