text_original: An ODE. Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise, Thy sully'd Habitation leave, To Dust no longer cleave, Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.
text_transcription: AN ODE ARISE MY DOVE FROM MIDST OF POTS ARISE THY SULLIED HABITATION LEAVE TO DUST NO LONGER CLEAVE UNWORTHY THEY OF HEAV'N THAT WILL NOT VIEW THE SKIES
phonemes: ɐn ˈoʊd. ɚɹˈaɪz maɪ dˈʌv, fɹʌm mˈɪdst ʌv pˈɑːts ɚɹˈaɪz, ðˌaɪ sˈʌlid hˌæbɪtˈeɪʃən lˈiːv, tə dˈʌst nˌoʊ lˈɑːŋɡɚ klˈiːv, ʌnwˈɜːði ðeɪ ʌv hˈɛvən ðæt wɪl nˌɑːt vjˈuː ðə skˈaɪz.