text_original: Which is but a dream of the day ; Till there comes, like a god, to the waiting hill. The first rose flush from above. And the soul that watches is hushed and still, In that hour of wonder and love.
text_transcription: WHICH IS BUT A DREAM OF THE DAY TILL THERE COMES LIKE A GOD TO THE WAITING HILL THE FIRST ROSE FLUSH FROM ABOVE AND THE SOUL THAT WATCHES IS HUSHED AND STILL IN THAT HOUR OF WONDER AND LOVE
phonemes: wˌɪtʃ ɪz bˌʌt ɐ dɹˈiːm ʌvðə dˈeɪ ; tˈɪl ðɛɹ kˈʌmz, lˈaɪk ɐ ɡˈɑːd, tə ðə wˈeɪɾɪŋ hˈɪl. ðə fˈɜːst ɹˈoʊz flˈʌʃ fɹʌm əbˈʌv. ænd ðə sˈoʊl ðæt wˈɑːtʃᵻz ɪz hˈʌʃt ænd stˈɪl, ɪn ðæt ˈaʊɚɹ ʌv wˈʌndɚ ænd lˈʌv.