text_original: Not to the languid South, Where the mariners of the brain Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense, And wrecked upon its main— Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind's breath To a torpid sleep that ends in death.
text_transcription: NOT TO THE LANGUID SOUTH WHERE THE MARINERS OF THE BRAIN ARE LURED BY THE SIRENS OF THE SENSE AND WRECKED UPON ITS MANE WHERE THOUGHT IS ROCKED ON THE SWEET WIND'S BREATH TO A TORPID SLEEP THAT ENDS IN DEATH
phonemes: nˌɑːt tə ðə lˈæŋɡwɪd sˈaʊθ, wˌɛɹ ðə mˈæɹɪnɚz ʌvðə bɹˈeɪn ɑːɹ lˈʊɹd baɪ ðə sˈaɪɹənz ʌvðə sˈɛns, ænd ɹˈɛkt əpˌɑːn ɪts mˈeɪn— wˌɛɹ θˈɔːt ɪz ɹˈɑːkt, ɔnðə swˈiːt wˈɪndz bɹˈɛθ tʊ ɐ tˈɔːɹpɪd slˈiːp ðæt ˈɛndz ɪn dˈɛθ.