text_original: sportsman Time, whose chargers fleet The moments, madly driven, Beat in the dust beneath their feet Sweet hopes that years have given; Turn, turn aside those reckless steeds, Oh! do not urge them my way; There's nothing that Time wants or needs In this contented by way.
text_transcription: SPORTSMAN TIME WHOSE CHARGERS FLEET THE MOMENTS MADLY DRIVEN BEAT IN THE DUST BENEATH THEIR FEET SWEET HOPES THAT YEARS HAVE GIVEN TURN ASIDE THOSE RECKLESS STEEDS OH DO NOT URGE THEM MY WAY THERE'S NOTHING THAT TIME WANTS OR NEEDS IN THIS CONTENTED BY WAY
phonemes: spˈɔːɹtsmən tˈaɪm, hˌuːz tʃˈɑːɹdʒɚz flˈiːt ðə mˈoʊmənts, mˈædli dɹˈɪvən, bˈiːt ɪnðə dˈʌst bᵻnˌiːθ ðɛɹ fˈiːt swˈiːt hˈoʊps ðæt jˈɪɹz hæv ɡˈɪvən; tˈɜːn, tˈɜːn ɐsˈaɪd ðoʊz ɹˈɛkləs stˈiːdz, ˈoʊ! duːnˌɑːt ˈɜːdʒ ðˌɛm maɪ wˈeɪ; ðɛɹz nˈʌθɪŋ ðæt tˈaɪm wˈɔnts ɔːɹ nˈiːdz ɪn ðɪs kəntˈɛntᵻd baɪ wˈeɪ.