text_original: Though, to the eye, the joyless landscape yieldsNo faintest sign to which the hope might cling,—Amidst the pallid desert of the fields,—It is in Winter that we dream of Spring.
text_transcription: THOUGH TO THE EYE THE JOYLESS LANDSCAPE YIELDS NO FAINTEST SIGN TO WHICH THE HOPE MIGHT CLING AMIDST THE PALLID DESERT OF THE FIELDS IT IS IN WINTER THAT WE DREAM OF SPRING
phonemes: ðˌoʊ, tə ðɪ ˈaɪ, ðə dʒˈɔɪləs lˈændskeɪp jˈiːldz nˈoʊ fˈeɪntɪst sˈaɪn tʊ wˌɪtʃ ðə hˈoʊp mˌaɪt klˈɪŋ,—ɐmˈɪdst ðə pˈælɪd dˈɛzɚt ʌvðə fˈiːldz,—ɪɾ ɪz ɪn wˈɪntɚ ðæt wiː dɹˈiːm ʌv spɹˈɪŋ.