text_original: There is nothing to compare with the inrush of sweet morning air that greets you on the threshold, as you take your first look out on a dew sparkling garden, probably all alive with the songs and chirps and twitters of the birds, and teeming with the scents of things seen and unseen, each pouring forth its gratitude in its own way for the ever new miracle of the sun's return.
text_transcription: THERE IS NOTHING TO COMPARE WITH THE INRUSH OF SWEET MORNING AIR THAT GREETS YOU ON THE THRESHOLD AS YOU TAKE YOUR FIRST LOOK OUT ON A DEW SPARKLING GARDEN PROBABLY ALL ALIVE WITH THE SONGS AND CHIRPS AND TWITTERS OF THE BIRDS AND TEEMING WITH THE SCENT OF THINGS SEEN AND UNSEEN EACH POURING FORTH ITS GRATITUDE IN ITS OWN WAY FOR THE EVER NEW MIRACLE OF THE SUN'S RETURN
phonemes: ðɛɹ ɪz nˈʌθɪŋ tə kəmpˈɛɹ wɪððɪ ˈɪnɹʌʃ ʌv swˈiːt mˈɔːɹnɪŋ ˈɛɹ ðæt ɡɹˈiːts juː ɔnðə θɹˈɛʃoʊld, æz juː tˈeɪk jʊɹ fˈɜːst lˈʊk ˈaʊt ˌɔn ɐ dˈuː spˈɑːɹklɪŋ ɡˈɑːɹdən, pɹˈɑːbəbli ˈɔːl ɐlˈaɪv wɪððə sˈɔŋz ænd tʃˈɜːps ænd twˈɪɾɚz ʌvðə bˈɜːdz, ænd tˈiːmɪŋ wɪððə sˈɛnts ʌv θˈɪŋz sˈiːn ænd ʌnsˈiːn, ˈiːtʃ pˈɔːɹɪŋ fˈɔːɹθ ɪts ɡɹˈæɾɪtˌuːd ɪn ɪts ˈoʊn wˈeɪ fɚðɪ ˈɛvɚ nˈuː mˈɪɹəkəl ʌvðə sˈʌnz ɹᵻtˈɜːn.