text_original: The cynics say that every rose Is guarded by a thorn which grows To spoil our posies; But I no pleasure therefore lack; I keep my hands behind my back When smelling roses. Though outwardly a gloomy shroud The inner half of every cloud Is bright and shining: I therefore turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out To show the lining.
text_transcription: THE CYNICS SAY THAT EVERY ROSE IS GUARDED BY A THORN WHICH GROWS TO SPOIL OUR POSIES BUT I KNOW PLEASURE THEREFORE LACK I KEEP MY HANDS BEHIND MY BACK WHEN SMELLING ROSES THOUGH OUTWARDLY A GLOOMY SHROUD THE INNER HALF OF EVERY CLOUD IS BRIGHT AND SHINING I THEREFORE TURN MY CLOUDS ABOUT AND ALWAYS WEAR THEM INSIDE OUT TO SHOW THE LINING
phonemes: ðə sˈɪnɪks sˈeɪ ðæt ˈɛvɹi ɹˈoʊz ɪz ɡˈɑːɹdᵻd baɪ ɐ θˈɔːɹn wˌɪtʃ ɡɹˈoʊz tə spˈɔɪl ˌaʊɚ pˈoʊziz; bˌʌt aɪ nˈoʊ plˈɛʒɚ ðˈɛɹfɔːɹ lˈæk; aɪ kˈiːp maɪ hˈændz bᵻhˌaɪnd maɪ bˈæk wɛn smˈɛlɪŋ ɹˈoʊzᵻz. ðˌoʊ ˈaʊtwɚdli ɐ ɡlˈuːmi ʃɹˈaʊd ðɪ ˈɪnɚ hˈæf ʌv ˈɛvɹi klˈaʊd ɪz bɹˈaɪt ænd ʃˈaɪnɪŋ: aɪ ðˈɛɹfɔːɹ tˈɜːn maɪ klˈaʊdz ɐbˈaʊt, ænd ˈɔːlweɪz wˈɛɹ ðˌɛm ɪnsˈaɪd ˈaʊt tə ʃˈoʊ ðə lˈaɪnɪŋ.