text_original: 155 THROUGH THE SMALL PANES. Though small the panes that I peer through, And grim the walls I see, One fir that grows into the blue. Is good heart's feast for me ; Though dank mists creep, like sorrows of old, And dim my picture o'er, Yet the bright winds drive them back to their fold, And give me my sky once more.
text_transcription: THROUGH THE SMALL PANES THOUGH SMALL THE PAINS THAT I PEER THROUGH AND GRIM THE WALLS I SEE ONE FUR THAT GROWS INTO THE BLUE IS GOOD HEART'S FEAST FOR ME THOUGH DANK MISTS CREEP LIKE SORROWS OF OLD AND DIM MY PICTURE O'ER YET THE BRIGHT WINDS DRIVE THEM BACK TO THEIR FOLD AND GIVE ME MY SKY ONCE MORE
phonemes: wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɪfti fˈaɪv θɹuː ðə smˈɔːl pˈeɪnz. ðˌoʊ smˈɔːl ðə pˈeɪnz ðæt aɪ pˈɪɹ θɹˈuː, ænd ɡɹˈɪm ðə wˈɔːlz aɪ sˈiː, wˈʌn fˈɜː ðæt ɡɹˈoʊz ˌɪntʊ ðə blˈuː. ɪz ɡˈʊd hˈɑːɹts fˈiːst fɔːɹ mˌiː ; ðˌoʊ dˈæŋk mˈɪsts kɹˈiːp, lˈaɪk sˈɑːɹoʊz ʌv ˈoʊld, ænd dˈɪm maɪ pˈɪktʃɚɹ ˈɔːɹ, jˈɛt ðə bɹˈaɪt wˈɪndz dɹˈaɪv ðˌɛm bˈæk tə ðɛɹ fˈoʊld, ænd ɡˈɪv mˌiː maɪ skˈaɪ wˈʌns mˈɔːɹ.