| 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 weather man of words
|
| But I could never shoot down
|
| 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
|
| In the foreign field of death
|
| 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 weather man of words
|
| But I could never shoot down
|
| 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 weather man of words
|
| But I could never shoot down
|
| 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 |