text_original: 97 BENEATH THE SURFACE. The curtains are drawn and the talk goes on, Where the lamp its warm glow flings, And they sit and speak with their faces wan Of the world and its lightest things. But their eyes never meet in midst of their speech. For they know, as they talk, full well. That a fire burns low in the heart of each, With the pain of a stifled hell.
text_transcription: BENEATH THE SURFACE THE CURTAINS ARE DRAWN AND THE TALK GOES ON WHERE THE LAMP ITS WARM GLOW FLINGS AND THEY SIT AND SPEAK WITH THEIR FACES WAN OF THE WORLD AND ITS LIGHTEST THINGS BUT THEIR EYES NEVER MEET IN MIDST OF THEIR SPEECH FOR THEY KNOW AS THEY TALK FULL WELL THAT A FIRE BURNS LOW IN THE HEARTS OF EACH WITH THE PAIN OF A STIFLED HELL
phonemes: nˈaɪnti sˈɛvən bᵻnˌiːθ ðə sˈɜːfɪs. ðə kˈɜːtənz ɑːɹ dɹˈɔːn ænd ðə tˈɔːk ɡoʊz ˈɔn, wˌɛɹ ðə lˈæmp ɪts wˈɔːɹm ɡlˈoʊ flˈɪŋz, ænd ðeɪ sˈɪt ænd spˈiːk wɪð ðɛɹ fˈeɪsᵻz wˈæn ʌvðə wˈɜːld ænd ɪts lˈaɪɾɪst θˈɪŋz. bˌʌt ðɛɹ ˈaɪz nˈɛvɚ mˈiːt ɪn mˈɪdst ʌv ðɛɹ spˈiːtʃ. fɔːɹ ðeɪ nˈoʊ, æz ðeɪ tˈɔːk, fˈʊl wˈɛl. ðˌæɾə fˈaɪɚ bˈɜːnz lˈoʊ ɪnðə hˈɑːɹt ʌv ˈiːtʃ, wɪððə pˈeɪn əvə stˈaɪfəld hˈɛl.