text_original: Naught am I but a fallow field ; Never a crop my acres yield. Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn blades stand, And I hear at my left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.
text_transcription: NOT AM I BUT A FALLOW FIELD NEVER A CROP MY ACRES YIELD OVER THE WALL AT MY RIGHT HAND STATELY IN GREEN THE CORN BLADES STAND AND I HEAR AT MY LEFT THE FLYING FEET OF THE WINDS THAT RUSTLE THE BENDING WHEAT
phonemes: nˈɔːt æm aɪ bˌʌt ɐ fˈæloʊ fˈiːld ; nˈɛvɚɹ ɐ kɹˈɑːp maɪ ˈeɪkɚz jˈiːld. ˌoʊvɚ ðə wˈɔːl æt maɪ ɹˈaɪt hˈænd stˈeɪtli ænd ɡɹˈiːn ðə kˈɔːɹn blˈeɪdz stˈænd, ænd aɪ hˈɪɹ æt maɪ lˈɛft ðə flˈaɪɪŋ fˈiːt ʌvðə wˈɪndz ðæt ɹˈʌsəl ðə bˈɛndɪŋ wˈiːt.