text_original: The little veins of temple and of wrist Are food no more for sleepless love s delight, And crumbling in the sessions of thy night, Pylon and sphinx shall be as fleeting mist. Bitter with natron are the lips that kissed, And shorn of dreams the spirit and the sight.
text_transcription: THE LITTLE VEINS OF TEMPLE AND OF WRIST ARE FOOD NO MORE FOR SLEEPLESS LOVE'S DELIGHT AND CRUMBLING IN THE SESSIONS OF THY NIGHT PILON AND SPHINX SHALL BE AS FLEETING MIST BITTER WITH NATURN ARE THE LIPS THAT KISSED AND SHORN OF DREAMS THE SPIRIT AND THE SIGHT
phonemes: ðə lˈɪɾəl vˈeɪnz ʌv tˈɛmpəl ænd ʌv ɹˈɪst ɑːɹ fˈuːd nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ fɔːɹ slˈiːpləs lˈʌv ˈɛs dᵻlˈaɪt, ænd kɹˈʌmblɪŋ ɪnðə sˈɛʃənz ʌv ðˌaɪ nˈaɪt, pˈaɪlɑːn ænd sfˈɪŋks ʃˌæl biː æz flˈiːɾɪŋ mˈɪst. bˈɪɾɚ wɪð nˈeɪtɹən ɑːɹ ðə lˈɪps ðæt kˈɪst, ænd ʃˈɔːɹn ʌv dɹˈiːmz ðə spˈɪɹɪt ænd ðə sˈaɪt.