text_original: But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody— Then—ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight— A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define— Nor Love—although the Love were thine.
text_transcription: BUT WHEN THE NIGHT HAD THROWN HER PALL UPON THAT SPOT AS UPON ALL AND THE MYSTIC WIND WENT BY MURMURING IN MELODY THEN AH THEN WOULD I AWAKE TO THE TERROR OF THAT LONE LAKE YET THAT TERROR WAS NOT FRIGHT BUT A TREMULOUS DELIGHT A FEELING NOT THE JEWELLED MINE COULD TEACH OR BRIBE ME TO DEFINE NOR LOVE ALTHOUGH THE LOVE WERE THINE
phonemes: bˌʌt wɛn ðə nˈaɪt hæd θɹˈoʊn hɜː pˈɔːl əpˌɑːn ðæt spˈɑːt, æz əpˌɑːn ˈɔːl, ænd ðə mˈɪstɪk wˈɪnd wɛnt baɪ mˈɜːmɚɹɪŋ ɪn mˈɛlədi— ðˈɛn—ˈɑː ðˈɛn aɪ wʊd ɐwˈeɪk tə ðə tˈɛɹɚɹ ʌvðə lˈoʊn lˈeɪk. jˈɛt ðæt tˈɛɹɚ wʌz nˌɑːt fɹˈaɪt, bˌʌt ɐ tɹˈɛmjʊləs dᵻlˈaɪt— ɐ fˈiːlɪŋ nˌɑːt ðə dʒˈuːəld mˈaɪn kʊd tˈiːtʃ ɔːɹ bɹˈaɪb mˌiː tə dᵻfˈaɪn— nˈɔːɹ lˈʌv—ɔːlðˈoʊ ðə lˈʌv wɜː ðˈaɪn.