text_original: Often while yet the morn is red I list for our master's eager tread. He smiles at the young corn's towering height, He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, But he glances not at the fallow field Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.
text_transcription: OFTEN WHILE YET THE MORN IS RED I LIST FOR OUR MASTER'S EAGER TREAD HE SMILES AT THE YOUNG CORN'S TOWERING HEIGHT HE KNOWS THE WHEAT IS A GOODLY SIGHT BUT HE GLANCES NOT AT THE FALLOW FIELD WHOSE IDLE ACRE NO WEALTH MAY YIELD
phonemes: ˈɔfən wˌaɪl jˈɛt ðə mˈɔːɹn ɪz ɹˈɛd aɪ lˈɪst fɔːɹ ˌaʊɚ mˈæstɚz ˈiːɡɚ tɹˈɛd. hiː smˈaɪlz æt ðə jˈʌŋ kˈɔːɹnz tˈaʊɚɹɪŋ hˈaɪt, hiː nˈoʊz ðə wˈiːt ɪz ɐ ɡˈʊdli sˈaɪt, bˌʌt hiː ɡlˈænsᵻz nˌɑːt æt ðə fˈæloʊ fˈiːld hˌuːz ˈaɪdəl ˈeɪkɚz nˈoʊ wˈɛlθ mˈeɪ jˈiːld.