text_original: For a Book by Thomas Hardy With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways, I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near, Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, Twisting and turning in a bootless chase,    When, like an exile given by God's grace To feel once more a human atmosphere, I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, Flung from a singing river's endless race.
text_transcription: FOR A BOOK BY THOMAS HARDY WITH SEARCHING FEET THROUGH DARK CIRCUITOUS WAYS I PLUNGED AND STUMBLED ROUND ME FAR AND NEAR QUAINT HORDES OF EYELESS PHANTOMS DID APPEAR TWISTING AND TURNING IN A BOOTLESS CHASE WHEN LIKE AN EXILE GIVEN BY GOD'S GRACE TO FEEL ONCE MORE A HUMAN ATMOSPHERE I CAUGHT THE WORLD'S FIRST MURMUR LARGE AND CLEAR FLUNG FROM A SINGING RIVER'S ENDLESS RACE
phonemes: fɚɹə bˈʊk baɪ tˈɑːməs hˈɑːɹdi wɪð sˈɜːtʃɪŋ fˈiːt, θɹuː dˈɑːɹk sɜːkjˈuːˌɪɾəs wˈeɪz, aɪ plˈʌndʒd ænd stˈʌmbəld; ɹˈaʊnd mˌiː, fˈɑːɹ ænd nˈɪɹ, kwˈeɪnt hˈɔːɹdz ʌv ˈaɪləs fˈæntəmz dˈɪd ɐpˈɪɹ, twˈɪstɪŋ ænd tˈɜːnɪŋ ɪn ɐ bˈuːtləs tʃˈeɪs,    wˌɛn, lˈaɪk ɐn ˈɛɡzaɪl ɡˈɪvən baɪ ɡˈɑːdz ɡɹˈeɪs tə fˈiːl wˈʌns mˈɔːɹ ɐ hjˈuːmən ˈætməsfˌɪɹ, aɪ kˈɔːt ðə wˈɜːldz fˈɜːst mˈɜːmɚ, lˈɑːɹdʒ ænd klˈɪɹ, flˈʌŋ fɹʌm ɐ sˈɪŋɪŋ ɹˈɪvɚz ˈɛndləs ɹˈeɪs.