text_original: 141 WAITING. When the dull wave leapt at the cliff and died In an angry flasli of white, We knew there was trouble far off outside, — A trouble that comes with night ; And we sit and listen, while storm clouds fly, Till the low moan reaches the ear, Which tells that the hounds of strife are in cry. And the hour of passion is here.
text_transcription: WAITING WHEN THE DULL WAVE LEAPT AT THE CLIFF IT DIED IN AN ANGRY FLASH OF WHITE AND WE KNOW THERE IS TROUBLE FAR OFF OUTSIDE A TROUBLE THAT COMES WITH NIGHT AND WE SIT AND LISTEN WHILE STORM CLOUDS FLY TILL THE LOW MOAN REACHES THE EAR WHICH TELLS THAT THE HOUNDS OF STRIFE ARE IN CRY AND THE HOUR OF PASSION IS HERE
phonemes: wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɔːɹɾi wˈʌn wˈeɪɾɪŋ. wˌɛn ðə dˈʌl wˈeɪv lˈɛpt æt ðə klˈɪf ænd dˈaɪd ɪn ɐn ˈæŋɡɹi flˈæsli ʌv wˈaɪt, wiː nˈuː ðɛɹwˌʌz tɹˈʌbəl fˈɑːɹ ˈɔf aʊtsˈaɪd, — ɐ tɹˈʌbəl ðæt kˈʌmz wɪð nˈaɪt ; ænd wiː sˈɪt ænd lˈɪsən, wˌaɪl stˈɔːɹm klˈaʊdz flˈaɪ, tˈɪl ðə lˈoʊ mˈoʊn ɹˈiːtʃᵻz ðɪ ˈɪɹ, wˌɪtʃ tˈɛlz ðætðə hˈaʊndz ʌv stɹˈaɪf ɑːɹ ɪn kɹˈaɪ. ænd ðɪ ˈaʊɚɹ ʌv pˈæʃən ɪz hˈɪɹ.