text_original: 50 RESTLESS AND USELESS. For to night my heart is a poor lost thing, With a restless useless pain, And the pitying skies no comfort bring, — Their tender touch is in vain. And I do not know what the pain may be. But this one thing alone, — That the heart must ache like the troubled sea, In wayward moods of its own.
text_transcription: RESTLESS AND USELESS FOR TO NIGHT MY HEART IS A POOR LOST THING WITH A RESTLESS USELESS PAIN AND THE PITYING SKIES NO COMFORT BRING THEIR TENDER TOUCH IS IN VAIN AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE PAIN MAY BE BUT THIS ONE THING ALONE THAT THE HEART MUST ACHE LIKE THE TROUBLED SEA IN WAYWARD MOODS OF ITS OWN
phonemes: fˈɪfti ɹˈɛstləs ænd jˈuːsləs. fɔːɹ tə nˈaɪt maɪ hˈɑːɹt ɪz ɐ pˈʊɹ lˈɔst θˈɪŋ, wɪð ɐ ɹˈɛstləs jˈuːsləs pˈeɪn, ænd ðə pˈɪɾiɪŋ skˈaɪz nˈoʊ kˈʌmfɚt bɹˈɪŋ, — ðɛɹ tˈɛndɚ tˈʌtʃ ɪz ɪn vˈeɪn. ænd aɪ duːnˌɑːt nˈoʊ wʌt ðə pˈeɪn mˈeɪ bˈiː. bˌʌt ðˈɪswˌʌn θˈɪŋ ɐlˈoʊn, — ðætðə hˈɑːɹt mˈʌst ˈeɪk lˈaɪk ðə tɹˈʌbəld sˈiː, ɪn wˈeɪwɚd mˈuːdz ʌv ɪts ˈoʊn.