text_original: Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, Still scattering desolation where they go.
text_transcription: DOWN FALLS THE SUMMER'S PRIDE AND SADLY SHOWS NATURE'S BARE VISAGE FURROW'D AS HE MOWS SEE MUSE WHAT HAVOC IN THESE LOOKS APPEAR THESE ARE THE TYRANT'S TROPHIES OF A YEAR SINCE HOPE HIS LAST AND GREATEST FOE IS FLED DESPAIR AND HE LODGE EVER IN ITS STEAD MARCH O'ER THE RUINED PLAIN WITH MOTION SLOW STILL SCATTERING DESOLATION WHERE THEY GO
phonemes: dˌaʊn fˈɔːlz ðə sˈʌmɚz pɹˈaɪd, ænd sˈædli ʃˈoʊz nˈeɪtʃɚz bˈɛɹ vˈɪzɪdʒ fˈɜːɹoʊd æz hiː mˈoʊz: sˈiː, mjˈuːz, wˌʌt hˈævək ɪn ðiːz lˈʊks ɐpˈɪɹ, ðiːz ɑːɹ ðə tˈaɪɹənts tɹˈoʊfiz əvə jˈɪɹ; sˈɪns hˈoʊp hɪz lˈæst ænd ɡɹˈeɪɾɪst fˈoʊ ɪz flˈɛd, dᵻspˈɛɹ ænd hiː lˈɑːdʒ ˈɛvɚɹ ɪn ɪts stˈɛd; mˈɑːɹtʃ ˈɔːɹ ðə ɹˈuːɪnd plˈeɪn wɪð mˈoʊʃən slˈoʊ, stˈɪl skˈæɾɚɹɪŋ dˌɛsəlˈeɪʃən wˌɛɹ ðeɪ ɡˈoʊ.