| High... On Its Hill The White House Stands | |
| Like a Mosque Of Silence On The Cliff Of Demise | |
| An Eastern Outline Against The Light Of The Sky | |
| With The Glare Of Sunset On The Autumn Night | |
| Behind Deaths Angel, The Sunset-glow Darken, Shadow Thickens Under Oaken Leaves, | |
| Soon The Last Powerstreams Of Summer Droop, | |
| Around The Dwelling Of Fire On The City Of The Dead | |
| And As An Echo Of The Black Death, Still Lingers Forgotten Under The Song Of The Wind - | |
| A Messy Remnant Of The Dark Fares, That The Scourge Of Plague Us Once Bestowed | |
| Behind Deaths Angel, The Sunset-glow Darken, Shadow Thickens Under Oaken Leaves, | |
| Soon The Last Powerstreams Of Summer Droop, | |
| Around The Dwelling Of Fire On The City Of The Dead | |
| And As An Echo Of The Black Death, Still Lingers Forgotten Under The Song Of The Wind - | |
| A Messy Remnant Of The Dark Fares, That The Scourge Of Plague Us Once Bestowed | |
| The Plague Cemetarye Nook Of Cracked Stone | |
| Closeby, Here Slumbers In The Place Of Centuries | |
| The Whisper From The Past Converges, With The Temple Of Death Of Our Own Time |
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