text_original: Hylas is dead, Nor will he e'er divine Those little red Rose petalled lips of thine. On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.
text_transcription: HYLAS IS DEAD NOR WILL HE EVER DIVINE THOSE LITTLE RED ROSE PETALLED LIPS OF THINE ON THE HIGH HILL NO IVORY DRYADS PLAY SILVER AND STILL SINGS THE SAD AUTUMN DAY
phonemes: hˈaɪləz ɪz dˈɛd, nˈɔːɹ wɪl hiː ˈɛɹ dᵻvˈaɪn ðoʊz lˈɪɾəl ɹˈɛd ɹˈoʊz pˈɛɾɔːld lˈɪps ʌv ðˈaɪn. ɔnðə hˈaɪ hˈɪl nˈoʊ ˈaɪvɚɹi dɹˈaɪædz plˈeɪ, sˈɪlvɚɹ ænd stˈɪl sˈɪŋks ðə sˈæd ˈɔːɾʌm dˈeɪ.