text_original: Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swellinor breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel — He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
text_transcription: TILL ACROSS THE DIAL HIS SHADE HAS PASSED AND THE BELFRY EDGE IS GAINED AT LAST TIS A BIRD I LOVE WITH ITS BROODING NOTE AND THE TREMBLING THROB IN ITS MOTTLED THROAT THERE'S A HUMAN LOOK IN ITS SWELLING BREAST AND THE GENTLE CURVE OF ITS LOWLY CREST AND I OFTEN STOP WITH THE FEAR I FEEL HE RUNS SO CLOSE TO THE RAPID WHEEL
phonemes: tˈɪl əkɹˌɑːs ðə dˈaɪəl hɪz ʃˈeɪd hɐz pˈæsd, ænd ðə bˈɛlfɹi ˈɛdʒ ɪz ɡˈeɪnd æt lˈæst. tˈɪz ɐ bˈɜːd aɪ lˈʌv, wɪð ɪts bɹˈuːdɪŋ nˈoʊt, ænd ðə tɹˈɛmblɪŋ θɹˈɑːb ɪn ɪts mˈɑːɾəld θɹˈoʊt ; ðɛɹz ɐ hjˈuːmən lˈʊk ɪn ɪts swˈɛlɪnɚ bɹˈɛst, ænd ðə dʒˈɛntəl kˈɜːv ʌv ɪts lˈoʊli kɹˈɛst ; ænd aɪ ˈɔfən stˈɑːp wɪððə fˈɪɹ aɪ fˈiːl — hiː ɹˈʌnz sˌoʊ klˈoʊs tə ðə ɹˈæpɪd wˈiːl.