text_original: Is not this, with all its precise good sense, the rarest poetry of prose, a poetry made up of no poetical epithets, no fanciful similes, but 'of imagination all compact,' poetry in substance? Then there was London.
text_transcription: IS NOT THIS WITH ALL ITS PRECISE GOODNESS THE RAREST POETRY OF PROSE A POETRY MADE UP OF NO POLITICAL EPITHETS NO FANCIFUL SMILES BUT OF IMAGINATION ALL COMPACT POETRY IN SUBSTANCE THEN THERE WAS LONDON
phonemes: ɪz nˌɑːt ðˈɪs, wɪð ˈɔːl ɪts pɹɪsˈaɪs ɡˈʊd sˈɛns, ðə ɹˈɛɹɪst pˈoʊɪtɹi ʌv pɹˈoʊz, ɐ pˈoʊɪtɹi mˌeɪd ˌʌp ʌv nˈoʊ poʊˈɛɾɪkəl ˈɛpɪθɪts, nˈoʊ fˈænsifəl sˈɪmɪlˌɪz, bˌʌt ʌv ɪmˌædʒᵻnˈeɪʃən ˈɔːl kəmpˈækt,pˈoʊɪtɹi ɪn sˈʌbstəns? ðˈɛn ðɛɹwˌʌz lˈʌndən.