text_original: I with the night on my lips, I sigh with the silence of death; And what do I care though the very stones should cry me unreal, though the clouds Shine in conceit of substance upon me, who am less than the rain. Do I not know the darkness within them?
text_transcription: I WITH THE NIGHT ON MY LIPS I SIGH WITH THE SILENCE OF DEATH AND WHAT DO I CARE THOUGH THE VERY STONES SHOULD CRY ME UNREAL THOUGH THE CLOUDS SHINE IN CONCEIT OF SUBSTANCE UPON ME WHO AM LESS THAN THE RAIN DO I NOT KNOW THE DARKNESS WITHIN THEM
phonemes: aɪ wɪððə nˈaɪt ˌɔn maɪ lˈɪps, aɪ sˈaɪ wɪððə sˈaɪləns ʌv dˈɛθ; ænd wʌt dˈuː aɪ kˈɛɹ ðˌoʊ ðə vˈɛɹi stˈoʊnz ʃˌʊd kɹˈaɪ mˌiː ʌnɹˈiːəl, ðˌoʊ ðə klˈaʊdz ʃˈaɪn ɪn kənsˈiːt ʌv sˈʌbstəns əpˌɑːn mˌiː, hˌuː æm lˈɛs ðɐn ðə ɹˈeɪn. dˈuː aɪ nˌɑːt nˈoʊ ðə dˈɑːɹknəs wɪðˈɪn ðˌɛm?