text_original: T. Schumann.) In dreams I crossed a barren land, A land of ruin, far away; Around me hung on every hand A deathful stillness of decay; And silent, as in bleak dismay That song should thus forsaken be, On that forgotten ground there lay The broken flutes of Arcady.
text_transcription: T SCHUMANN IN DREAMS I CROSSED THE BARREN LAND A LAND OF RUIN FAR AWAY AROUND ME HUNG ON EVERY HAND A DEATHFUL STILLNESS OF DECAY AND SILENT AS IN BLEAK DISMAY THAT SONG SHOULD THUS FORSAKEN BE ON THAT FORGOTTEN GROUND THERE LAY THE BROKEN FLUTES OF ARCADE
phonemes: tˈiː. ʃˈuːmən.) ɪn dɹˈiːmz aɪ kɹˈɔst ɐ bˈæɹən lˈænd, ɐ lˈænd ʌv ɹˈuːɪn, fˈɑːɹ ɐwˈeɪ; ɚɹˈaʊnd mˌiː hˈʌŋ ˌɔn ˈɛvɹi hˈænd ɐ dˈɛθfəl stˈɪlnəs ʌv dᵻkˈeɪ; ænd sˈaɪlənt, æz ɪn blˈiːk dɪsmˈeɪ ðæt sˈɔŋ ʃˌʊd ðˈʌs fɔːɹsˈeɪkən bˈiː, ˌɔn ðæt fɚɡˈɑːʔn̩ ɡɹˈaʊnd ðɛɹ lˈeɪ ðə bɹˈoʊkən flˈuːts ʌv ˈɑːɹkædi.