text_original: The dark has moons to sway its utmost deep, And stars that touch the sleeper from their height. Ere long, tho mute and liberative Night Thy soul and sorrow in her poppy steep, Her flowers the sickle of the dawn shall reap, In melancholy meadows of the light.
text_transcription: THE DARK HAS MOONS TO SWAY ITS UTMOST DEEP AND STARS THAT TOUCH THE SLEEPER FROM THEIR HEIGHT ERE LONG THOUGH MUTE AND LIBERATIVE NIGHT THY SOUL AND SORROW IN HER POPPIES DEEP HER FLOWERS THE SICKLE OF THE DAWN SHALL REAP IN MELANCHOLY MEADOWS OF DELIGHT
phonemes: ðə dˈɑːɹk hɐz mˈuːnz tə swˈeɪ ɪts ˈʌtmoʊst dˈiːp, ænd stˈɑːɹz ðæt tˈʌtʃ ðə slˈiːpɚ fɹʌm ðɛɹ hˈaɪt. ˈɛɹ lˈɔŋ, ðˈoʊ mjˈuːt ænd lˈɪbɚɹətˌɪv nˈaɪt ðˌaɪ sˈoʊl ænd sˈɑːɹoʊ ɪn hɜː pˈɑːpi stˈiːp, hɜː flˈaʊɚz ðə sˈɪkəl ʌvðə dˈɔːn ʃˌæl ɹˈiːp, ɪn mˈɛləŋkˌɑːli mˈɛdoʊz ʌvðə lˈaɪt.