text_original: But each third of June as the sun dips low, She descends the stairs to the water's verge, And plucks a rose from the lowest bough Which the lapping waves almost submerge, And what forms out of the deep, resurge To vex her, maybe, with mournful brow, Knows the Lady Cecile.
text_transcription: BUT EACH THIRD OF JUNE AS THE SUN DIPS LOW SHE DESCENDS THE STAIRS TO THE WATER'S VERGE AND PLUCKS A ROSE FROM THE LOWEST BOUGH WHICH THE LAPPING WAVES ALMOST SUBMERGE AND WHAT FORMS OUT OF THE DEEP RESEARGE TO VEX HER MAY BE WITH MOURNFUL BROW KNOWS THE LADY CECIAL
phonemes: bˌʌt ˈiːtʃ θˈɜːd ʌv dʒˈuːn æz ðə sˈʌn dˈɪps lˈoʊ, ʃiː dᵻsˈɛndz ðə stˈɛɹz tə ðə wˈɔːɾɚz vˈɜːdʒ, ænd plˈʌks ɐ ɹˈoʊz fɹʌmðə lˈoʊɪst bˈaʊ wˌɪtʃ ðə lˈæpɪŋ wˈeɪvz ˈɔːlmoʊst səbmˈɜːdʒ, ænd wʌt fˈɔːɹmz ˌaʊɾəv ðə dˈiːp, ɹᵻsˈɜːdʒ tə vˈɛks hɜː, mˈeɪbiː, wɪð mˈɔːɹnfəl bɹˈaʊ, nˈoʊz ðə lˈeɪdi sˈɛsiːl.