text_original: But in the city, like a wounded thing That limps to cover from the angry chase, He steals down streets where sickly arc lights sing, And wanly mock his young and shameful face; And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring In many a high and dreary sleeping place.
text_transcription: BUT IN THE CITY LIKE A WOUNDED THING THAT LIMPS TO COVER FROM THE ANGRY CHASE HE STEALS DOWN STREETS WHERE SICKLY ARC LIGHTS SING AND WANLY MOCK HIS YOUNG AND SHAMEFUL FACE AND TINY GONGS WITH CRUEL FERVOUR RING IN MANY A HIGH AND DREARY SLEEPING PLACE
phonemes: bˌʌt ɪnðə sˈɪɾi, lˈaɪk ɐ wˈuːndᵻd θˈɪŋ ðæt lˈɪmps tə kˈʌvɚ fɹʌmðɪ ˈæŋɡɹi tʃˈeɪs, hiː stˈiːlz dˌaʊn stɹˈiːts wˌɛɹ sˈɪkli ˈɑːɹk lˈaɪts sˈɪŋ, ænd wˈænli mˈɑːk hɪz jˈʌŋ ænd ʃˈeɪmfəl fˈeɪs; ænd tˈaɪni ɡˈɔŋz wɪð kɹˈuːəl fˈɜːvɚ ɹˈɪŋ ɪn mˈɛni ɐ hˈaɪ ænd dɹˈɪɹi slˈiːpɪŋ plˈeɪs.