text_original: Sitting alone in the windy tower, While the waves leap high, or are low at rest, What does she think of, hour by hour, With her strange eyes bent on the distant west, And a fresh white rose on her withered breast, What does she think of, hour by hour?
text_transcription: SITTING ALONE IN THE WINDY TOWER WHILE THE WAVES LEAP HIGH OR ARE LOW AT REST WHAT DOES SHE THINK OF HOUR BY HOUR WITH HER STRANGE EYES BENT ON THE DISTANT WEST AND A FRESH WHITE ROSE ON HER WITHERED BREAST WHAT DOES SHE THINK OF HOUR BY HOUR
phonemes: sˈɪɾɪŋ ɐlˈoʊn ɪnðə wˈɪndi tˈaʊɚ, wˌaɪl ðə wˈeɪvz lˈiːp hˈaɪ, ɔːɹ ɑːɹ lˈoʊ æt ɹˈɛst, wˌʌt dˈʌz ʃiː θˈɪŋk ʌv, ˈaʊɚ baɪ ˈaʊɚ, wɪð hɜː stɹˈeɪndʒ ˈaɪz bˈɛnt ɔnðə dˈɪstənt wˈɛst, ænd ɐ fɹˈɛʃ wˈaɪt ɹˈoʊz ˌɔn hɜː wˈɪðɚd bɹˈɛst, wˌʌt dˈʌz ʃiː θˈɪŋk ʌv, ˈaʊɚ baɪ ˈaʊɚ?