text_original: Then, with a melancholy glee To think where once my fancy strayed, I muse on what the years may be Whose coming tales are all unsaid, Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid Within their shadowed niches, grow By grim degrees to pick and spade, As one by one the phantoms go.
text_transcription: THEN WITH A MELANCHOLY GLEE TO THINK WHERE ONCE MY FANCIES STRAIGHT I MUSE ON WHAT THE YEARS MAY BE WHOSE COMING TALES ARE ALL UNSAID TILL TONGS AND SHOVEL SNUGLY LAID WITHIN THEIR SHADOWED NICHES GROW BY GRIM DEGREES TO PICK AND SPADE AS ONE BY ONE THE PHANTOMS GO
phonemes: ðˈɛn, wɪð ɐ mˈɛləŋkˌɑːli ɡlˈiː tə θˈɪŋk wˌɛɹ wˈʌns maɪ fˈænsi stɹˈeɪd, aɪ mjˈuːz ˌɔn wʌt ðə jˈɪɹz mˈeɪ biː hˌuːz kˈʌmɪŋ tˈeɪlz ɑːɹ ˈɔːl ʌnsˈɛd, tˈɪl tˈɑːŋz ænd ʃˈʌvəl, snˈʌɡli lˈeɪd wɪðˌɪn ðɛɹ ʃˈædoʊd nˈɪtʃᵻz, ɡɹˈoʊ baɪ ɡɹˈɪm dᵻɡɹˈiːz tə pˈɪk ænd spˈeɪd, æz wˈʌn baɪ wˈʌn ðə fˈæntəmz ɡˈoʊ.