text_original: A small wind stirs, the copse is bright in the sun: Like quicksilver the shine and shadow run Across the leaves. A bramble whips his face, The tears spring fast, and through the rainbow mist He sees a world that wavers like the flame Of a blown candle.
text_transcription: A SMALL WIND STIRS THE COPSE IS BRIGHT IN THE SUN LIKE QUICKSILVER THE SHINE AND SHADOW RUN ACROSS THE LEAVES A BRAMBLE WHIPS HIS FACE THE TEARS SPRING FAST AND THROUGH THE RAINBOW MIST HE SEES A WORLD THAT WAVERS LIKE THE FLAME OF A BLOWN CANDLE
phonemes: ɐ smˈɔːl wˈɪnd stˈɜːz, ðə kˈɑːps ɪz bɹˈaɪt ɪnðə sˈʌn: lˈaɪk kwˈɪksɪlvɚ ðə ʃˈaɪn ænd ʃˈædoʊ ɹˈʌn əkɹˌɑːs ðə lˈiːvz. ɐ bɹˈæmbəl wˈɪps hɪz fˈeɪs, ðə tˈɪɹz spɹˈɪŋ fˈæst, ænd θɹuː ðə ɹˈeɪnboʊ mˈɪst hiː sˈiːz ɐ wˈɜːld ðæt wˈeɪvɚz lˈaɪk ðə flˈeɪm əvə blˈoʊn kˈændəl.