text_original: Flow on, brave stream, with never a rest, Till thou findest the open sea ; There 's a hunger to wander, within my breast. To wander and go with thee.*' THE BITTER HOUR. The storm has leapt on the forest, Intent on its cruel end, And the strife is at its sorest, As the great trees toss and bend.
text_transcription: FLOW ON BRAVE STREAM WITH NEVER A REST TILL THOU FINDEST THE OPEN SEA THERE'S A HUNGER TO WANDER WITHIN MY BREAST TO WANDER AND GO WITH THEE THE BITTER HOUR THE STORM HAS LEAPT ON THE FOREST INTENT ON ITS CRUEL END AND THE STRIFE IS AT ITS SOREST AS THE GREAT TREES TOSS AND BEND
phonemes: flˈoʊ ˈɔn, bɹˈeɪv stɹˈiːm, wɪð nˈɛvɚɹ ɐ ɹˈɛst, tˈɪl ðˈaʊ fˈaɪndɪst ðɪ ˈoʊpən sˈiː ; ðɛɹ ˈɛs ɐ hˈʌŋɡɚ tə wˈɔndɚ, wɪðˌɪn maɪ bɹˈɛst. tə wˈɔndɚ ænd ɡˌoʊ wɪð ðˈiː.ˈæstɚɹˌɪsk ðə bˈɪɾɚɹ ˈaʊɚ. ðə stˈɔːɹm hɐz lˈɛpt ɔnðə fˈɔːɹɪst, ɪntˈɛnt ˌɔn ɪts kɹˈuːəl ˈɛnd, ænd ðə stɹˈaɪf ɪz æɾ ɪts sˈɔːɹst, æz ðə ɡɹˈeɪt tɹˈiːz tˈɔs ænd bˈɛnd.