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