text_original: And often, when he opened his mouth, it would be to recite a verse of Pope's in a way that moved me strangely. For a poem is not a poem unless it be well spoken. In the hot days of summer, over against the dark forest the bright green of our little patch of Indian corn rippled in the wind. And towards night I would often sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond.
text_transcription: AND OFTEN WHEN HE OPENED HIS MOUTH IT WOULD BE TO RECITE A VERSE OF POPES IN A WAY THAT MOVED ME STRANGELY FOR A POEM IS NOT A POEM UNLESS IT IS WELL SPOKEN IN THE HOT DAYS OF SUMMER OVER AGAINST THE DARK FOREST THE BRIGHT GREEN OF OUR LITTLE PATCH OF INDIAN CORN RIPPLED IN THE WIND AND TOWARDS NIGHT I WOULD OFTEN SIT WATCHING THE DEEP BLUE OF THE MOUNTAIN WALL AND DREAM OF THE MYSTERIES OF THE LAD THAT LAY BEYOND
phonemes: ænd ˈɔfən, wˌɛn hiː ˈoʊpənd hɪz mˈaʊθ, ɪt wʊd biː tə ɹᵻsˈaɪt ɐ vˈɜːs ʌv pˈoʊpz ɪn ɐ wˈeɪ ðæt mˈuːvd mˌiː stɹˈeɪndʒli. fɚɹə pˈoʊᵻm ɪz nˌɑːɾə pˈoʊᵻm ʌnlˈɛs ɪt biː wˈɛl spˈoʊkən. ɪnðə hˈɑːt dˈeɪz ʌv sˈʌmɚ, ˌoʊvɚɹ ɐɡˈɛnst ðə dˈɑːɹk fˈɔːɹɪst ðə bɹˈaɪt ɡɹˈiːn ʌv ˌaʊɚ lˈɪɾəl pˈætʃ ʌv ˈɪndiən kˈɔːɹn ɹˈɪpəld ɪnðə wˈɪnd. ænd təwˈɔːɹdz nˈaɪt aɪ wʊd ˈɔfən sˈɪt wˈɑːtʃɪŋ ðə dˈiːp blˈuː ʌvðə mˈaʊntɪn wˈɔːl ænd dɹˈiːm ʌvðə mˈɪstɚɹiz ʌvðə lˈænd ðæt lˈeɪ bᵻjˈɔnd.