text_original: Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples, Full of disappointment and of rain, Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples Of autumn tell the withered tale again.
text_transcription: NOTHING NOW WILL RIPEN THE BRIGHT GREEN APPLES FULL OF DISAPPOINTMENT AND OF RAIN BRACKISH THEY WILL TASTE OF TEARS WHEN THE YELLOW DAPPLES OF AUTUMN TELL THE WITHERED TALE AGAIN
phonemes: nˈʌθɪŋ nˈaʊ wɪl ɹˈaɪpən ðə bɹˈaɪt ɡɹˈiːn ˈæpəlz, fˈʊl ʌv dˌɪsɐpˈɔɪntmənt ænd ʌv ɹˈeɪn, bɹˈækɪʃ ðeɪ wɪl tˈeɪst, ʌv tˈɪɹz, wˌɛn ðə jˈɛloʊ dˈæpəlz ʌv ˈɔːɾʌm tˈɛl ðə wˈɪðɚd tˈeɪl ɐɡˈɛn.